POKING THROUGH THE RUINS (BERT SWINK’S JUNK YARD)…Jim Stiles (ZX#3)

2022 UPDATE: In the late 90s and early 2000s, there was a small but vocal minority who supported the idea that the junkier Moab remained, the less chance it would turn into the next New West population center. There was no more honored and revered example (in my mind at least) than Bert Swink’s Auto Parts and junk yard. It was situated just south of Moab, and in full view of US 191. Tourists by the thousands passed Bert’s yard every day and must have marveled at the amazing collection of vehicles of all ages and descriptions. But as Moab moved into the 21 Century, its political leaders and economic boosters were appalled at the sight—it looked like junk to them. And even worse, it would have the effect of keeping real estate prices down. That was the rub with Moab’s hierarchy. These eyesores must be removed!

Having heard the rumors of junk yard extinction, I started taking photographs of the remaining auto graveyards, just as I had photographed the disappearing orchards a decade earlier. And so below are some memories of Bert’s. I have to admit I got a late start and many of the classic old auto wrecks had already made their way to the car shredder that had been set up 10 miles south of Moab at the far end of Spanish Valley.

Bert Swink started the auto graveyard and surplus parts store back in the 1950s and was highly successful. Bert turned over the operation in the 1980s to his son Don. Bert died in 2000 and Don passed away just a year later. Bert’s other son son Kerry, who had also worked for his father most of his life, continued the tradition for a few more years. It was said that if a customer came by, looking for a specific part, even if the car was 20 years old, Kerry knew just where to find it.

Eventually, in 2007, the property was sold and there is not a trace of the buildings or all those wonderful junk cars… Its an empty lot, no doubt waiting for the next motel or condo development…JS

BELOW is part of an essay I wrote about the value of junk and how almost everyone thought it was a crazy idea…until a couple decades later, when some wondered if they might prefer a junk car to a massive condo development…

THE REJECTED PLAN TO SAVE MOAB…
(From 2002: “Could Junk be the Salvation of Moab?”)

It was an old friend of mine, an aging hippie/philosopher who first defended junk as the “Last Bastion of Defense Against Rich Weasel Yupster Developers” and a means of controlling Growth and keeping property taxes at a reasonable level. Known locally as Uncle Meat, he believed that no urban upper middle class American would be caught dead living next to a shabby tin trailer with pigs in a wallow out back and every car they’ve owned since 1957 parked out front and with a healthy portion of old refrigerators and discarded batteries tossed in (and about) for good measure.

Rural Westerners have always coveted their junk, long before it became a tool to discourage new neighbors. Perhaps because the distances are so great in the West (or were at least), getting replacement parts for just about any appliance or vehicle could be costly, difficult to find, and when located, might take weeks to arrive. So if the family car went kaput, it made sense to “store” it in the weeds and see what use it might provide in the future. After all, just because the engine threw a rod didn’t mean there was a thing wrong with the transmission or the differential or any number of other still functioning parts. The next car just might be able to use some of those parts. And if their new car wasn’t compatible with the junked one, a neighbor might have a use for it. Soon nobody threw away anything. That’s why miles of black pipe and conduit and brass fittings and washing machine motors and swamp coolers and practically anything you can imagine that once performed a task for Rural Westerners could be found in their backyards. And maybe they’re even a touch sentimental.

But there is a vital connection between all that lovely junk and maintaining a rural culture. It was proposed that, to hold the line against out-of-town investors, mostly vacant condo developments (those dratted time-share people) and other ne’r-do-wells, the governing bodies of our community needed to take immediate and drastic action.

Specifically, our only hope was the enactment of a city and county ordinance that required the presence of junk in every Grand County resident’s yard. I cannot recall the exact details, but I believe the plan called for at least one prominently displayed inoperative vehicle on cinder blocks, three door-less defunct refrigerators, and 500 square feet (minimum) of waist deep weeds, preferably noxious, per front yard. Back yard junk was optional since it wasn’t always clearly visible from the road. And Uncle Meat mentioned tax incentives for homeowners who maintained smelly farm animals in small pens.

At first glance, this idea might strike some as unusual, and to others downright extreme. But this is Utah after all. In other communities across my beloved Beehive State, city councils and county commissions have endorsed and approved all kinds of far nuttier ideas. Some have passed ordinances that mandate the wearing of firearms, for example, and in one community, the city council voted to require a sign in every resident’s yard condemning the United Nations. By comparison, a pro-junk ordinance would have been quite mild, even tepid by Utah standards.

But the vision never came to pass; instead we were all slowly outnumbered by an influx of new Grand County residents with an urban past, who had a habit of buying land next to junky yards, or farm animals, knowing the junk or the smell was there, supposedly accepting and even embracing Life In Moab the way it was, then weeks or months later, getting annoyed, then angry, then hysterical about the offending view or odor. It was the same story. The new neighbor might try being perfunctorily pleasant the first time (“Uh…excuse me? But the odor from your pigs are really making it impossible for me to enjoy my tofu dinner…could you do something about that please?” Like what? Change their deodorant?).

When the farmer looked at them blankly, shook his head and walked away, the newcomers might ratchet it up a bit with a letter to the health department. Usually that didn’t work either. All the new resident could do was wait for a demographic shift. In places like Moab it didn’t take long. Today, Grand County moves forward to implement new anti-junk ordinances, the antithesis of our Junky Dream, but has sweetened the deal by offering to pay for the removal, instead of threatening fines. Even many of the old-timers, tired of fighting what feels like inevitable restrictions on their old lifestyle, and seduced by exploding real estate prices, have figured out that junk-free yards get a better price. They know their days are numbered–-might as well take the money and run.

Spanish Valley Drive was once a funky mishmash of trailers and homemade cabins and rundown ranch-style leftovers from the Uranium Boom. Today they’re giving way to high density planned urban units, built out of cheap wood, polyfoam insulation, chicken wire and stucco. They squeeze as many of them to the acre as the planning commission will allow and call them homes. But nobody knows their neighbors, everyone locks their doors and burglar alarms are standard equipment. But if you need a spare tie rod end for a ‘73 Buick, don’t count on anyone to help you out.

Some will argue that the explosive growth of small towns like Moab is inevitable, that it’s happening all over the Rural West and that to fight it is a hopeless waste of time, energy and ultimately will cause heartbreak and disillusionment. And yet no small town has ever shown more courage and determination than Moab when it wanted to. Moab is the living proof that we could have stopped what’s happening to it now.

Jim Stiles is publisher/editor of The Zephyr