Tom Key Jared Fisher never really stopped moving. You could always find him somewhere between Escalante and Panguitch, ticking off items from lists that seemed to grow faster than he could cross them out. To some, the trail was an audacious idea; to Fisher, it was a necessity. “We’ve got this landscape It’s like it was made for this. All we needed to do was draw the line.”
Drawing that line took more than two decades. It took people like Matt McMurray, a trail designer with an engineer’s precision and a poet’s soul, who could see flow in a jumbled ridgeline. It took Lizzie Jensen, whose coffee shop in Panguitch became an unofficial project headquarters, and whose stubborn optimism kept the team’s spirits high when things stalled. Most of all, it took an unshakeable belief that something like the Aquarius Trail—190 miles of purpose-built mountain biking route stretching from Brian Head to Escalante—could exist at all.
The Genesis of a Trail
Back in the early 1990s, Fisher ran a bike touring company, Escape Adventures, in Las Vegas. He was used to dreaming big, his thoughts always skipping past what was to what could be. The idea for a trail linking southern Utah’s alpine highlands to its red-rock canyons first surfaced during a ride near Brian Head. Fisher looked out over the rolling plateau and thought, Why not here? Why not now?
But this was more than just a biking trail. This was a line that would connect landscapes, towns, and people. The trail would pass through some of Utah’s most iconic terrain, from the spruce-covered peaks of Brian Head to the surreal slot canyons near Escalante, with five hut stops along the way. Fisher envisioned riders traveling light, enjoying the challenge of the ride without worrying about the logistics of food, shelter, or water.
The Builders
By the early 2000s, Fisher had rallied a team. Matt McMurray was one of the first to join. A former competitive rider turned trail designer, McMurray had a gift for finding balance: his trails weren’t just functional; they had rhythm. “The landscape tells you what the trail wants to do,” McMurray said. “It’s just a matter of listening.”
Lizzie Jensen joined the team when the project’s funding dried up. She wasn’t a trail designer, but she knew people—and how to motivate them. Lizzie organized fundraisers, charmed local politicians, and made sure every volunteer who came to a trail-building day left with a belly full of stew and a reason to come back.
“It’s not about the trail. It’s about what the trail brings—connection, community, something bigger than any one of us.”
The Long Road to Completion
Building the Aquarius Trail was a masterclass in patience. The team had to navigate a labyrinth of federal, state, and local approvals. The Bureau of Land Management signed off, then changed its mind. Ranchers worried about bikers disrupting grazing routes. Environmental advocates raised concerns about preserving the delicate ecosystems of the plateau.
Jared Fisher wore the brunt of it, sitting through hours-long meetings that always seemed to end with more questions than answers. “You can’t rush something like this, If you want it done right, you’ve got to take the time.”
Then there was the funding—or lack thereof. By 2019, the project was at a standstill. That’s when Outdoor Utah Alliance stepped in, helping secure grants and forge partnerships with companies like REI and Patagonia. The money trickled in slowly, but it was enough to restart construction.
The Trail Opens
In 2021, the trail was finally ready. The Aquarius Trail Hut System offered riders an experience unlike anything else in the U.S.: a six-day, five-night hut-to-hut journey covering nearly 200 miles. The huts—each equipped with beds, a stocked kitchen, and solar-powered lighting—allowed riders to focus on the ride, not the logistics.
On opening day, Jared Fisher stood at the trailhead, his eyes scanning the first wave of riders heading out from Brian Head. McMurray was there too, walking the line with a critical eye. Lizzie handed out coffee, beaming as she watched the fruits of their collective labor roll into the wilderness.
The Ride
The trail begins at 11,300 feet, in the thin air of Brian Head Peak. From there, it flows into forests of spruce and fir, weaving through alpine meadows and across streams. Riders climb steep switchbacks, their tires crunching over rocky terrain, before plunging into fast, flowy descents.
By the time they reach Panguitch, the trail has already taken them through landscapes that seem ripped from postcards: hoodoos rising like petrified sentinels, vast expanses of open sky, and sunsets that bathe the world in orange and purple.
The final stretch into Escalante is a study in endurance. The red-rock desert challenges riders with its exposed terrain and punishing heat, but the payoff—arriving in Escalante with its quirky charm and well-earned cold drinks—is worth every pedal stroke.
Why It Matters
The Aquarius Trail isn’t just a biking route; it’s a lifeline. Towns like Panguitch and Escalante are already feeling the impact of increased tourism. Local businesses are thriving, hosting riders from across the globe.
But for Fisher, McMurray, and Jensen, the trail’s greatest success isn’t economic. It’s personal. When you ride this trail, you see the best of what this place has to offer. And you feel like you’re part of something—part of the land, the effort, the story.
Your Invitation
The Aquarius Trail awaits. Bring your bike, your legs, and your sense of adventure. The huts are waiting, stocked and ready for your journey. As you ride, think about the people who made this possible—the dreamers who turned a line on a map into a trail through Utah’s wild heart.
This isn’t just a ride. It’s a story.
