Bull Valley Gorge: Where Trucks Go To Die

Bull Valley Gorge in southern Utah is a place where the earth folds in on itself—narrow, towering, and ancient. The dramatic slot canyon cuts through the heart of the Grand Staircase-Escalante, its sandstone walls closing so tightly in places that sunlight barely filters through. But the most haunting feature lies suspended above the canyon floor: the rusted remains of a 1950s pickup truck, wedged impossibly between the sheer walls, a grim monument to tragedy.

In 1954, three men tried to cross a narrow bridge over the gorge. Tragically, their truck stalled and rolled backward off the edge, plunging into the tightest section of the slot canyon. All three men lost their lives in the crash. Recovering their bodies proved difficult. The sheriff, accompanied by his son, responded to the scene; his son rappelled down into the canyon to reach the wreckage. Two of the bodies were pulled up to the rim using ropes, but the third man had been thrown from the truck and was later found at the bottom of the gulch. Today, the pickup still rests there, a chilling reminder of the tragedy.

Trailhead elevation 6,090'

Water none

Don't miss the Jeep, of course

Hiking Bull Valley Gorge

Fresh off an overnighter in Bryce Canyon, I set my sights on the raw, wild expanse of Grand Staircase-Escalante for a four- or five-day venture. I start the day by making a long-overdue trip out to finally explore Bull Valley Gorge—a place that's been on the edge of my curiosity for too long.

The drive out is, as always, a moving painting of stone and sky. Thankfully, the BLM 500 is bone-dry this time—a relief, considering my last trip out nearly ended in my truck sliding off the side. Miles unspool behind me until I pass the familiar Willis Creek Narrows trailhead. Not long after, I arrive at the quiet emptiness of the Bull Valley Gorge parking area. No other souls in sight—just me and the wind. I down a swig of water and head out, stepping onto the rim under a cloudy sky.

The trail skirts the edge of the gorge like a tightrope, teasing glimpses into the shadowy depths below. Before long, a modest wooden sign and a trail register greet me. I scrawl my name into the ledger of wanderers, then pause for a view of the area.

Pressing on, I continue to a drop-in point about a half-mile in. The sandy floor welcomes me with soft resistance, and I backtrack until I reach the first real obstacle—an easy 8-foot down climb that forces me to feel every inch of rock beneath my palms and soles.

From there, the canyon breathes—expanding, tightening, shaping itself into a labyrinth of stone. It's late March, and the chill of winter still lingers. Snow and ice cling stubbornly to the shadowed bottom, glistening like crystal veins carved through the earth.

Gnarled trees and massive boulders—some as large as tiny homes—are wedged between the canyon’s sheer walls, silent testaments to the furious, chaotic floods that sculpted this place.

Within the next quarter mile, I face two more down climbs. The first is simple, aided by a conveniently placed tree limb; the second demands a bit more finesse, requiring careful negotiation around a hulking boulder.

Immediately after the third down climb, beneath a ceiling of pale sky framed by hundred-foot walls, I find myself directly below the infamous Jeep. Its rear axle dangles overhead like a warning or a wonder—depending on how you choose to see it. I stand still, small in the shadow of time and steel, snap a few photos, and let the silence swallow me.

Eventually, I retrace my steps, climbing back out of the gorge, with mud-caked shoes and a smile on my face. After returning to the truck, I'm off to Escalante for a return trip to Zebra and Tunnel Slot Canyons and a night under the stars.