Sure, Ric Cantrell looks the part of a state government bureaucrat: pasty skin, prematurely gray hair, navy blue suit. A muted BlackBerry continually bounces across his desk in a windowless office.

But Cantrell, 39, the state Senate's chief deputy, has a wild side — wild as in wild country, his preferred term for what most people call wilderness.

Need convincing? Ask him about the time he was kayaking alone in his home state of Washington and was confronted by heavily armed military personnel outside what he believes was a secret nuclear submarine base.

Or about when he staggered miles through the desert with a cracked kneecap to guide a group of troubled young women participating in a wilderness therapy program to a water source.

Then there's the story of how he first came to Utah. After having what can only be described as a vision, Cantrell headed off to the Cedar City area and built a hut out of branches where he lived for a time.

Even after marrying a decade ago and having two sons, he's still up for adventure. His desktop computer is filled with pictures of family trips, including several of his then-3-year-old son standing in a slot canyon, staring at a trickle of water that was about to become a flash flood.

Cantrell may be spending more time than ever behind a desk these days, dealing with everything from the media to closed-door GOP caucus meetings, but his online resume still touts both his professional political experience and the highlights of what he refers to as his time "exploring the American West."

Sounding more like a seeker than the politico he's paid to be, Cantrell talks about how he roamed because he "felt like life was too important to waste." That meant taking a string of unusual jobs over the years, including stints at a cattle ranch in Oregon, a trading post near Death Valley and a suicide hotline in Washington.

But he also felt the pull of politics. After attending five colleges, he finally graduated in his mid-20s with a degree in political science and English, as well as experience as an intern with the Washington state Legislature.

After his knee injury, Cantrell ended up sitting behind a desk in a bank human resource office in Salt Lake City, a job he would just as soon forget. Volunteering for Mark Shurtleff's county commission race led to a paid post as his deputy campaign manager when Shurtleff ran for attorney general.