This is an archived article that was published on sltrib.com in 2016, and information in the article may be outdated. It is provided only for personal research purposes and may not be reprinted.

Two observations from last week show a trend in which politicians are barricading themselves from the public by using bureaucrats, advisers and spokespeople to create images that don't necessarily reflect themselves.

One was my attempt to ask Robyn Bagley, Republican gubernatorial candidate Jonathan Johnson's lieutenant-governor running mate, about the dismal graduation rate of her Career Path charter high school and her $139,879 salary as its director.

Despite leaving a personal message on her cellphone, I never did get to talk to Bagley. I received instead a carefully crafted statement several hours later that was attributed to her, but was clearly a collaboration with campaign advisers.

The other was the revelation that Gov. Gary Herbert's campaign hosted a gathering with lobbyists at the swanky Alta Club to tell them their clients could have one-on-one meetings with the governor for generous campaign contributions.

My favorite part of that story was the explanation from Herbert's camp was that there would be no "quid pro quo" attached to the donations. In other words, no promises or favors would come from a result of the contributions. Donors would just get to talk to the governor — you know, like "how's the weather? "How about the Jazz?"

There was that one little suspected quid pro quo a few years ago that cost taxpayers $13 million. Remember that one?

A consortium of construction companies called FSZ complained that it initially had won the bid for a $1.1 billion highway project, only to have the contract awarded to Provo River Constructors, which had donated $87,500 to Herbert's campaign.

FSZ was paid $13 million to walk away.

There was nothing nefarious about it, according to the Herbert administration. It was just a payment to avoid litigation costs. Why would anyone think campaign contributions would have anything to do with a company that seemingly lost a bid getting a lucrative contract anyway?

Back to the Bagley story. I left a message on her phone to call me. I eventually heard from Sasha Clark, spokeswoman for the Johnson campaign. When I explained the reason for my call, she gave me a statement. I then heard from Dave Hansen, Johnson's campaign manager, that I would be getting a more extensive statement from Bagley.

Several hours later, the campaign sent me a written statement that I was to attribute to Bagley, although I have no idea who actually wrote it.

I remember the days when officeholders and candidates actually spoke for themselves. They even returned phone calls ­— all by themselves.

Former Gov. Scott Matheson, the last Democrat to hold that office in Utah, had an open-door policy. Reporters could virtually walk in and out of the office, stopping the governor, when need be, for an impromptu question or a quote.

Norm Bangerter, Matheson's Republican successor, was the same way. The only difference, to the chagrin of some Capitol Hill reporters, was that Bangerter removed the coffeepot in the kitchenette behind the reception area.

Things were tightened a bit when Gov. Mike Leavitt took office. We didn't have such easy access. But Leavitt and successors Olene Walker and Jon Huntsman Jr. were quick to return a call even without knowing what the questions would be. They usually responded on the spot without having to huddle with advisers for several hours to concoct an official answer.

That seems to have changed with Herbert. And, apparently, with Johnson if he wins the office.

One of my favorite memories was placing a call to Leavitt during his third term in the early 2000s and giving his receptionist my cellphone number.

The governor called me about an hour later, while I was at lunch at Lamb's with my daughter Rebecca and granddaughter Isabelle.

As I took the call, Isabelle, as 4-year-olds seem programmed to do, wanted to talk to the caller. While Leavitt and I discussed an important policy issue, the child's persistence finally got to me, and I asked the governor if he would say hello to my granddaughter.

"Of course," he said, and I handed her the phone.

"Hi, governor," she said.

"Hi, Isabelle," he responded.

They talked about favorite colors and cool toys until she was satisfied and gave me back the phone.

It was a nice gesture by the governor. And it didn't cost me a dime.