John B. Marek is a storyteller with dirt under his nails who weaves tales inspired by a lifetime immersed in nature. His insightful essays and award-winning fiction delve into the complexities of sustainable living, the heart of rural communities and the thrill of outdoor adventure. You can find more of his writing at johnbmarek.com. He recently published a new short story titled “A Sliver of Moon” and you can read it for free here.
In the late-summer warmth of a September afternoon 50 years ago, two very different American experiences were unfolding. While families across the country gathered in theaters for a special closed-circuit telecast, I found myself amidst the cheerful chaos of Cedar Point, an amusement park that had become a cherished tradition for my family. While I was enjoying the thrills of roller coasters, the sweet scent of cotton candy and the clanging of arcade games, millions of Americans were witnessing a spectacle that would become etched in the annals of pop culture history.
Cedar Point, located just 30 minutes from my childhood home, was more than an amusement park. It was a summertime ritual that was typically twofold: a midsummer extravaganza with the extended family and a more intimate outing with my mom and dad on “U.S. Gypsum Day,” the first Sunday after Labor Day.
On this unique day, the park reopened briefly after its official summer season, and companies like U.S. Gypsum, where my father worked, offered their employees free passes, fostering goodwill while providing Cedar Point with a final revenue boost before the long winter closure.
On Sept. 8, 1974, even as I reveled in the joys of Berardi’s fries and the Matterhorn, part of my mind was elsewhere. It wasn’t until the drive home, listening to the radio, that I learned the fate of Evel Knievel’s audacious attempt to jump the Snake River Canyon.
Robert Craig “Evel” Knievel was more than just a daredevil; he was a living embodiment of the American spirit in the 1970s. Born in Butte, Mont. in 1938, Knievel’s early life was marked by a series of odd jobs and brushes with the law. It wasn’t until 1965, when he started performing motorcycle stunts, that he found his true calling.
Knievel’s rise to fame was meteoric. His death-defying motorcycle jumps over cars, buses and even sharks captured the imagination of the American public. He became a larger-than-life figure, dressed in his iconic star-spangled jumpsuit, embodying the risk-taking, individualistic spirit that defined the era.
The Snake River Canyon jump was to be Knievel’s magnum opus. Initially, he had set his sights on jumping the Grand Canyon, but when the National Park Service refused permission, he turned his attention to the Snake River Canyon in Idaho.
The preparation for the jump was a spectacle in itself. Knievel leased land on both sides of the 1,600-foot-wide canyon and began constructing a massive launch ramp. The vehicle for this unprecedented feat was the SkyCycle X-2, a rocket-powered contraption that bore little resemblance to a traditional motorcycle.
Designed by former NASA engineer Robert Truax, the SkyCycle was essentially a steam-powered rocket with a motorcycle-like launch mechanism. It was 13 feet long, weighed 1,100 pounds and was powered by a steam engine capable of producing 6,000 pounds of thrust. The plan was for Knievel to reach speeds of up to 350 mph before deploying a parachute to land safely on the other side of the canyon.
As Sept. 8 dawned, an estimated 15,000 spectators gathered at the jump site, with millions more paying $10-$15 (the equivalent of $55 to $85 today) to watch the event on closed-circuit television in theaters nationwide. The atmosphere was electric, a mix of anticipation and trepidation.
At 3:36 p.m. local time, Knievel was raised by crane into the cockpit of the SkyCycle. The crowd held its collective breath as the countdown began. With a deafening roar, the SkyCycle shot off the 108-foot launch ramp, soaring into the sky above the canyon.
However, almost immediately, things began to go wrong. The drogue parachute deployed prematurely, mere seconds after takeoff. This caused the SkyCycle to lose forward momentum and start drifting backward. For heart-stopping moments, it looked as if Knievel would plummet into the rushing waters of the Snake River below, likely drowning.
In a stroke of luck that seemed to define Knievel’s career, winds pushed the SkyCycle back toward the canyon wall. It landed on the rocky shore, just feet from the water’s edge. Knievel emerged from the craft with only minor injuries – a testament to his seemingly superhuman ability to cheat death.
While the jump was technically a failure, it paradoxically marked the pinnacle of Knievel’s popularity. The event captured the nation’s attention like a few others, becoming a defining moment in 1970s popular culture. In the years that followed, Knievel’s fame continued to grow. He became a marketing phenomenon, with action figures, lunch boxes and even a Hollywood biopic starring George Hamilton. His influence extended far beyond the realm of stunts, inspiring a generation of extreme sports athletes and becoming a symbol of American daring and individualism.
Knievel’s career would continue for a few more years, culminating in an ill-fated shark jump in Chicago in 1977. After this, he retired from major stunts, though he continued to make appearances, and his legend continued to grow.
Looking back on that September day in 1974, it’s clear that both my day at Cedar Point and Knievel’s jump at Snake River Canyon were quintessentially American experiences, albeit on vastly different scales. Cedar Point represented the simple joys of family and community, a slice of Americana that continues to this day. Knievel’s jump, on the other hand, embodied the spectacle and daring that captivated the nation during a tumultuous decade marked by social change and challenging national events.
Together, these experiences paint a striking picture of America in the 1970s – a nation that could find joy in both the simple pleasures of an amusement park and the heart-stopping excitement of a death-defying stunt. It was a time when the country seemed to teeter between tradition and radical change, much like Knievel teetered between life and death as he soared over the Snake River Canyon.
Evel Knievel passed away on Nov. 30, 2007, at the age of 69. He left behind a legacy that continues to inspire and captivate. Today, the site of his Snake River Canyon jump has become a pilgrimage spot for fans, a monument to a man who dared to dream big and a nation that loved him for it. The earthen ramp that served as the base for the launch tower is still there, and there is a small plaque along the rim trail commemorating the event.
As for me, while I may have missed witnessing history in the making that day, I gained a lifelong appreciation for the power of shared experiences, whether they’re as intimate as a family outing or as grand as a nation holding its breath for a daredevil’s leap into the unknown. In many ways, that’s the real magic of America – a place where both the ordinary and the extraordinary can coexist, each leaving its own indelible mark on our collective memory.
You can view Knievel’s Snake River Canyon jump here.