Chewing Scenery Takes on New Meaning When Riding With a UTV Convoy in Southern Utah's Backcountry

I’ve never been in a motorcycle gang. But I did recently join a UTV gang. For four days we roared, raged, and otherwise raised hell on a UTV tour through Southern Utah, burning across red-rock deserts and remote forests. Churning clouds of iron-rich dust aboard side-by-side UTVs, we dared anyone to get in our way. We would not be stopped—except perhaps by a nice dinner and a fireside whiskey.

At first, we aren’t a gang at all—just 10 random, adventure-curious strangers gathered at the Hurricane, UT, outpost of Wilderness Collective, an outfitter that specializes in immersive off-road motorcycle and UTV excursions in locales from Baja to Grand Canyon to Iceland. Our outing will take us through landscapes bordering Zion and Bryce Canyon national parks and large swaths of Dixie National Forest between. This and other WC trips also can be booked through recreational vehicle manufacturer BRP’s Uncharted Society.

We view a safety video starring WC’s surfer-esque founder, Steve Dubbeldam, the gist being to avoid rolling or crashing, and how damn much it will cost if we don’t. In light of this, I’m somewhat surprised that only two of us have ever spent time in a UTV seat, especially when I see that our rides are Can-Am Maverick X3s, 135-horsepower, super-capable machines that spew trail aggression.

There's a brief vehicle check—perhaps too brief: As we pull out of the staging lot, I diagnose that another driver’s slow pace is caused by an unsecured seatbelt triggering a governor on the accelerator. Problem solved, we lurch through traffic to the far outskirts of town and turn onto an inclining gravel trail.

We’re off. We, paying customers, are distributed into seven Mavericks, while our three guides, astride Husqvarna motorbikes, buzz among us like an escort of angry hornets in a tableau that evokes Mad Max: Fury Road, only without the mohawks and radiation-disfigured warlords. We steadily climb through Warner Valley, hard against the Arizona border, rolling past scrubby pastureland with red-rock hills and plateaus in the distance.

We feel out our machines while navigating dust plumes and hairpin turns. At one point, we squeeze around a Kia-sized rockfall that partially blocks the path. After a couple of hours, just when I’m already starting to feel gritty and chapped, the terrain quickly transitions greener and grassier. We circle a large, blue reservoir until the guides claim a campsite at water’s edge.

Our chuckwagon, a beefed-up Ford F250 driven by chef Ryan, soon arrives, and we learn that the WC ethos entails spoiling us for surviving the day. We’re passed ice-cold beers to guzzle while pitching tents, followed by a sunset supper of carnitas tacos and street corn.

We chat around messy mouthfuls and learn that we are college buddies, we are co-workers, we are fathers and sons. Notably, we are all dudes except for a young couple’s female half, who matter-of-factly confirms that, yes, her rounded belly signals that she’s a good bit pregnant. Everyone thinks that’s awesome, especially since it means less competition for the makeshift bar’s ample supply of tequila and bourbon.

Feet to the crackling fire, I marvel at the brightness of scattered stars above, and at the glowing straight line of Elon Musk’s Starlink satellites cruising over us. But my tent, and the cushiony mattress of thick grass beneath, beckons.

A couple of hours into the second day, and deeper into Dixie National Forest, I take the wheel from my co-pilot, James, just in time to encounter my favorite manner of trail—a long, sweeping incline with a clear sight line and traction that lets knobby tires snatch hold and propel us as fast as I dare.

I’m daring pretty damn fast, because we’re the first UTV behind the lead guide, Jay, and we’ve learned that Jay and his Husqvarna set a decidedly rapid pace for the entire convoy. Being up front is also good because it avoids most of the thick dust that causes drivers down trail to back off even farther. The drawback is when Jay hits a fork in the trail and appoints the lead UTV to stay put and point stragglers in the right direction—meaning you get shuffled all the way to the rear. At least the pause provides a respite to wipe goggles and rinse the grit from your teeth.

We’ve been climbing through mostly wooded terrain, and even churn through a patch of snow that stubbornly clings to a ridge line in late June. When we exit this trail, we wind down past vast fields of gnarled, black lava rock to a busy little crossroads with fewer cars than UTVs, several of which are using their roll cages to fly huge “Fuck Biden” flags.

This is Duck Creek Village, elevation 8,400 feet, smack dab between Zion and Bryce Canyon. I have to determine this for myself, because another facet of the WC ethos is for the guides to remain almost comically vague about exact destinations, or even meal plans. (A running joke: Whenever anyone inquires about the menu, chef Ryan deadpans “hot dogs.”)

The intent, I believe, is to help us cut loose from our normal, overscheduled routines and appreciate the moment. Enhancing that vibe is the “digital detox” policy that made us surrender our phones back in Hurricane. In return, the other two guides, Joshua and Aaron, double as documentarians, producing photos and even an edited video that surpass anything we would capture.

Refueled, our convoy enters relatively flat, open range, meaning there are no fences between us and free-roaming cattle, though they seem content to just stare as we roar past, helmets on a swivel. Eventually we climb into forest again, where Jay picks a campsite situated between the trail and a rushing stream complete with mini-waterfall. I pitch my tent among sheltering Aspens, stirring mosquitoes that drive me back toward the fire. Over hearty bowls of cavatappi with lamb ragu, we decompress and rewind the day.

“I feel like I’m driving a damn stock car through the woods!” enthuses a newbie who has already gained the confidence to stick the accelerator and drift through curves. He’s not wrong—it can feel exactly like that.

For the second morning in a row, I wake up shivering inside my insulated sleeping bag, momentarily alarmed by bear-like snoring from a nearby tent. While Ryan brews coffee and whips up some French toast with crème fraîche and blueberry compote (how’s that for roughing it?), I uphold a camping tradition by hopping over the rekindled fire. Managing an ungainly landing, I jokingly tell The Pregnant One that it’s her turn, a challenge I instantly regret when her eyes light up. She picks her line and executes a graceful leap across the flames that puts mine to shame. I’m deeply mortified, and deeply impressed. And now we all know who is the biggest badass in this gang.

James is driving like a madman, barely easing off our speed as we enter tight turns on a high-ridge trail and accelerating hard through the other end of the arc. I’m laughing almost hysterically, and risk breaking the shotgun-seat code by shouting “Hey, this would be a sorta bad spot to make a mistake!” as I eyeball the sheer drop-off on my side. I don’t fully exhale until we descend and slowly pass through a ranching community, complete with cowpokes on horseback pushing a herd ahead of our convoy.

On a route to a shaded spot to eat lunch, we’re encouraged to “go hard” through a stream to help rinse three days of accumulated grit off the UTVs. I’m back behind the wheel, and figure a dunk won’t do me any harm either, given that I chose not to traumatize my testicles in the snow-melt waterfall at the previous camp. The stream isn’t wide, but it is fairly deep and the approach steep.

When we hit the water, it rises and falls like a tsunami, soaking us to the seats. Whooping for joy, we park to watch the next splashy crossing, and the next, until—THONK!—a driver loses the exit line in the spray and angles head-on into a foot locker-sized rock. The result is a crumpled front suspension arm, grinding the machine to a halt. With the aid of a few tools and even a tree limb, the crew attempts to force it back into place, to no avail. The chagrined driver climbs into an empty seat, his steed left behind for a long tow, as we’ve traveled maybe 250 miles from HQ at this point.

After another crossroads refueling, we again climb into forested terrain, but soon encounter muddy trails that become deep, sloppy ruts. How fast you attack them depends on how mucky you want to get. (So much for the stream bath.) Our convoy halts when the trail is blocked by an older, smaller UTV sunk to the axles. Our combined muscle could probably wiggle it free, but we’re rescued from that effort by the arrival of our winch-equipped F250 chuckwagon, which easily yanks the UTV to dry ground.

Eventually we leave the mud zone behind and continue to climb. The trail literally ends at a small, remote campsite on the point of a cliff that supplies one of the most magnificent views I’ve ever beheld. Stretching out before us is a broad sandstone amphitheater on the outskirts of Bryce Canyon, its endlessly folded contours striped pink, peach, and white. Our boisterous gang is struck uncharacteristically silent, at least until beers are cracked and bottles of liquor unscrewed.

Our final dinner, served after a brain-blowing sunset, is a feast of charcuterie, cheese, and steak au poivre. I can’t really see my plate in the dark, and since I assume others can’t see me, I use my fingers to pick up saucy beef slices and shove hunks of broccolini into my mouth. Most of us pitch our tents within a few feet of the cliff’s very high, very sheer edge. If I sleepwalk in the middle of the night, at least I’ll plummet to my death through beautiful surroundings.

I assume the final half-day will be anticlimactic, requiring long stretches on surface roads back to Hurricane—and it does. But at Mt. Carmel Junction, about halfway, Jay unexpectedly yanks us off the road onto a local trail system. It starts with a steep rise of rock that freshly challenges my nerves, then instantly transitions into a narrow, whoopy trail that alternates between rock and ankle-deep sand, requiring me to switch between two-wheel drive and four-wheel drive on the fly.

This trail simply begs to be driven fast even as it presents blind curve after blind curve. When Jay pauses at a fork, I shout to ask if there could be two-way traffic. He grins when he says yes, but he’ll smash into any oncoming vehicle before I do.

In a few short hours, I’ll be showering four days of grime off my sore muscles in a Vegas hotel, on my way to a bespoke cocktail and a towering plate of pasta in an overpriced bistro. But for now I’m hyper-focused and totally in the zone, driving at the edge of my ability, eyes collecting every bit of info about the trail and instantly processing it into my reaction on the steering wheel and pedals. It’s somewhat taxing, and a lot exhilarating.

One thing’s for sure, I’m not thinking about my 401(k) or whether I should upgrade my iPhone.

Thanks for that, Wilderness Collective and Southern Utah. And thanks, gang.