Ever take a spin on one of Park City’s 400-plus miles of trails and wondered, “Who the heck is Rob? Or Spiro? Does Spin Cycle mean this path will make you tumble?” The trail names decorating Summit County aren’t just random labels slapped on the map. They’re living pieces of Park City’s renegade history born from “pirate trails” stealthily built across private land in the 1980s, developer showdowns, old miners’ paths and colorful characters who refused to stay indoors when there was singletrack to build and explore.
“Forty years ago, there weren’t many hiking and biking trails,” says local writer Linda George. “People would find old miners’ paths and connect them by hand. That was all done on the QT [quiet]. Most of it was bootlegged, no approval.” Those early covert efforts helped shape the architecture for what became the Mountain Trails Foundation.
When Park City Ski Area (now Park City Mountain Resort) staff became concerned about unauthorized trail building on their property, Jan Wilking envisioned a trail plan and started meeting with trail builders, the city and landowners. The “officialness” of the trail system really began when Troy Duffin came to town. Like Wyatt Earp to Tombstone, Duffin, a lawyer from Tahoe, California, rode into Park City and set things right. Hired by Charlie Sturgis and Jan Wilking in 1993 as Mountain Trails Foundation’s very first executive director, Duffin used his legal background to go door-to-door negotiating easements with landowners, enforcing development agreements that had included public trails, and quietly transforming rogue connections into permanent rights-of-way for hikers and bikers.
“Nowhere Elks, Somewhere Elks, Valderoad and La Dee Duh were all named out of spite during the fight against the Valderonde development that nearly took over Round Valley,” says filmmaker and photographer Ross Downard. “In a public meeting, the developer flippantly said the local elk herd didn’t belong there. That comment helped kill the project and locals celebrated the win with those trail names.”
George and Downard have teamed up with Mountain Trails Foundation to capture these stories — and the maverick spirit behind them — before the original trailblazers, many now in their 70s and 80s, are gone. George says ever since she moved to Utah in the eighties she was curious. “I’ve been exploring Park City trails since then, and I’ve always wondered about the names and the history.”
She recently began formulating spreadsheets with hundreds of trail names and their origin stories. Her goal is a trail history guidebook packed with maps, historical context and humor. “Many of the founders are aging. I want to preserve their legacy,” George says, noting her goal is to finish the book before next summer. “Apps and articles offer routes and stats, but nothing yet tells their story. These stories are worth saving,” she adds.
Downard agrees. He is crafting a 39-minute documentary with outside funding that weaves interviews with pioneers and archival footage from early mountain biking days. The film will tell the broader narrative of how a local community turned rogue routes into mapped magic.
Individually and together, George’s and Downard’s projects emphasize that no single hero built the system. It was residents, city and county councils, resorts, the state, and groups like Mountain Trails Foundation and Basin Recreation working together that created what you walk and pedal today.
For Downard, the project is a chance to create something that lasts beyond the endless scroll. “I see a lot of my work just being so disposable in the social media world,” he says. “So much effort and it gets such a short blip as people scroll past. This is a chance to create something that potentially can live on and tell a story of a great legacy.”
For example, Crazy 8’s was named after a volunteer crew. They showed up on August 8 with exactly eight people to work on a trail that ended up with eight turns. Or Spin Cycle in the Deer Crest/Deer Valley area. Builders found an old wringer-style washing machine along the trail during construction. Today, the vintage washing machine drum at the top serves as the trail’s unofficial photo op. Sometimes, a random act can summon a name. When a member of the trail crew working at Deer Valley fell onto some sharp rocks, they named the path Pointy Rocks.
Unlike climbing routes, which are usually named by the person who set the route, Park City’s trail names hatch from a collective. They might honor whoever was most instrumental in establishing them, something that happened along the way or something to represent the times, like the nods to Princess Bride (Fireswamp and Thieves Forest) and Ferris Bueller’s Day Off (Twist and Shout).
They might also honor a beloved local. Cyndi Schwandt, a longtime Parkite and one of the first female mountain bikers to compete professionally, not only knew every secret shortcut but helped blend them into many of the singletrack networks in the eighties and nineties. Tragically, she died on a bike ride in 2019. Cyn City, a 2.75-mile downhill flow trail at Park City Mountain Resort, was created in her name three years later.
The tight and technical Sweeney’s Switchbacks, starting mid-mountain near King’s Crown Terrain Park at Park City Mountain Resort, is named after the Sweeney family. They owned Town Lift and 105 acres of surrounding land and were early supporters of local trails. Then there’s Rosebud’s Heaven, named after a beloved dog that passed away.
One mystery remains: Who is Rob? The answer, along with dozens of other delightful mysteries, will arrive with George’s guidebook. Until then, every time you pedal, run or hike one of Park City’s trails, pay attention to its name and fully appreciate the world-class network we all love today.
