Wildfire and Mayhem on the Doorstep of Paradox

Driving north through the narrow end of Lion Gulch, the red rock walls suddenly open to reveal a sweeping view of the “Slaughterhouse of the West.” This is Paradox, Colorado, a settlement named for the strange, paradoxical course of the Dolores River, which cuts across the valley rather than flowing along it. Fittingly, the town’s own past is just as contradictory: a history marked by violence and lawlessness, yet curiously absent from the broader record of the West.

Paradox Valley is a sight to behold. Just east of the Utah state line, the valley stretches more than 20 miles in length and only a few miles across, encircled by sheer red cliffs that rise nearly 2,000 feet into the sky. These towering walls shelter the valley from winter’s biting winds and storms, creating a rare refuge in the high desert. Fed by the Dolores River its sparse creeks, and irrigation, the floor blossoms with grasses, flowers, and irrigated corn fields . To stand within it is to step into a vast garden, enclosed by crimson ramparts that seem to separate this hidden world from the rest of the earth.

Paradox Valley is surrounded by high mesas and broken, rocky country that provides little respite for man or beast. The sheer isolation in the dry wilds of the Southwest makes tracking a man difficult if not impossible, with an ambush all too likely back in the late 1800s. Lawmen back in the 19th century weren't too keen on venturing up above the valley to track down men known to be violent. You'd think most of the bloodshed and mayhem would happen out above the walls. But the opposite proved to be true. From family feuds to transient thieves and killers, Paradox saw it all.

Looking straight across the north end of Paradox Valley, July 2025

For generations, Paradox Valley was home to the Ute people. The valley was included in the Ute reservation under the 1868 treaty, but by the late 1870s, small-time cattlemen and drifters had begun slipping into the area. Its isolation made it a haven for both ranchers and outlaws. By 1881, the Utes were forced from the valley, and the following year the U.S. government officially opened Paradox for settlement. This began a new chapter that would soon prove as turbulent as the land itself.

Within a few years, families began moving to the fertile valley to homestead farms of their own. James P. Galloway, a former Colorado state senator who had previously operated a store along a popular wagon route, saw his fortunes wane when the railroad bypassed him. Seeking a fresh start and milder weather, he relocated his family to Paradox in 1883. He was soon joined by the Barrett, Leach, and Waggoner families. Galloway quickly established the Galloway Cattle-Land Investment Company and, according to some accounts, harbored ambitions to gain control over the entire valley.

Out in the desert, few things held as much value as water. Paradox Valley was no exception. Settlers who could secure a reliable source, whether from a spring, river, or dug well, often flourished where others struggled. Water was essential not only for cattle, which roamed the open ranges in great numbers, but also for growing crops in the harsh, arid soil. Without it, even the hardiest pioneers had little hope of making a good life there.

Another man who would leave a lasting mark on Paradox Valley arrived in 1886: Kan Young, traveling with his large family. Born in 1838, Kan was a cousin of Brigham Young, who would later lead the Mormon Church after its founder, Joseph Smith, was killed. Kan’s family had journeyed west with some of the original Mormon pioneers in 1850, but Kan and his brother Henry had different plans. Early along the trail, they branched off and headed to Grass Valley, California, hoping to make their fortune in the goldfields.

Seven years after their goldfield venture, Kan and his brother Henry moved east to Utah. Kan settled for a time in southern Utah, marrying in Washington City in 1859. As their family grew rapidly, they moved often before finally settling in Rockwood, Colorado. Kan worked as a freighter, traveling to towns as far away as Nevada, always on the move. Though he visited his family whenever he could, he dreamed of giving them a more stable life. In the early 1880s, he attempted to start a farm in nearby La Sal, a steep canyon over from Paradox Valley, but the effort proved challenging. Eventually, tales of Paradox Valley’s productive land and mild climate reached him. Inspired once more, Kan moved his family there, determined to establish a ranch of his own.

One afternoon, after chasing hotspots all day, I rested on the western edge of the ridge, high above Paradox Valley. That morning, we had spotted smoke rising from the desert below and hiked up through the gnarled, dense forest along a narrow ridge. When we reached it, the heat hit harder than we expected. Several trees had been torched, their bark reduced to ashy white, streaked with black, while fiery orange embers still glowed in pockets. The air shimmered with heat, and the pungent scent of burnt junipers clung to everything around us.

I had hiked in our five-gallon water bag, fitted with a nozzle for pumping, and now trained it on the massive tree towering above me. There wasn’t enough water to put out all the heat, and I had to take quick breaks between sprays. A slight shift in the wind could suddenly push the blazing heat toward me, and even my heavy flame-retardant shirt and pants offered only momentary protection. They held the heat longer than expected too. This tree was the last one left in the smoldering patch. If it fell, the fire could leap to new fuel types, so it was up to me to keep it standing, cooling it down as best I could standing atop the simmering heat.

I sprayed water all around and over my head, reaching as high as I could. A small branch fell just inches from me, the heat finally consuming it completely. After a few more gallons, the tree’s smoldering seemed to subside. Meanwhile, the two other crew members dug a hand line along the downwind edge of the patch, ensuring the fire wouldn’t spread. Finally, we took a break in the shade, rehydrating and grabbing a quick bite while keeping watch on the still-smoking area, ever alert for flare-ups.

We sat listening to the patch crackle and snap as the midday sun rose overhead. While reminiscing about our favorite horror movies, the engine boss suddenly spotted a large plume to the south. The Dragon Bravo fire was burning hundreds of miles to the southwest, but that smoke looked closer. The Dragon Bravo fire had a tragic reputation, including the death of a firefighter and the destruction of the historic Grand Canyon Lodge on the North Rim.

After an hour of watching the smoldering patch and judging the wind, we were confident it wouldn’t spread. We hiked back along the ridge tops, scanning the rocky ground for arrowheads. In places, the earth was bare, revealing sharp stones that crunched underfoot. Once we reached the engine, we moved to a vantage point where we could keep an eye on the lingering smoke. Behind us, the edge of Paradox Valley stretched out, a vast reminder of the land we’d been working to protect.

I silently took in the sweeping views of juniper forest fading to green, looking southeast along the valley as I enjoyed a snack in the warm afternoon sun. A gentle wind carried the earthy scent of sage, drifting in soft, fleeting waves. It was easy to understand why so many had been drawn to this quaint little valley when the West was still wild, a place that promised both challenge and quiet beauty. I thought about those early settlers, carving out lives here in the 1880s, and wondered how they had first imagined what Paradox Valley could become.

Paradox Valley can be seen in the shadows above, heading towards the right of the photo

After moving to the valley, Kan Young set to work making his vision a reality. One of his neighbors was a friend from La Sal, Tom Ray, while another, Monte Leach, owned a valuable spread with prime creek frontage. Together, the three men began constructing Ray’s Ditch, channeling additional irrigation water down from Deep Creek in the La Sal Mountains. The project greatly increased the value of their land, but it was no quick task—it would take more than four years to complete.

Meanwhile, the Galloways had set their sights on controlling the entire valley. By 1889, Monte Leach’s land, especially valuable for its abundant water from the completed ditch, had caught their attention. Over the years, Leach had received multiple offers to sell from Kan Young, the Galloways, and others, but the Galloways were determined that no one else would claim it. This marked the beginning of a bitter feud that would last for decades and span generations.

To kick things up a notch, the Galloways brought in Tom Pepper, a Confederate veteran and reputed gunslinger, judging by the pistols he carried on both hips. Over the next few years, Pepper became a familiar figure to the Leach family, particularly Mrs. Hattie Leach. He spread rumors about Hattie and her daughter, attempting to sow discord between Monte and his wife. The Galloways encouraged Pepper’s actions, hoping that any rift would lead the Leaches to divide their land—and ultimately sell it to them.

Meanwhile, Kan Young had been mining copper and silver in the La Sal Mountains, selling his finds for a hefty profit. His growing success made him a more formidable presence than the Galloways had anticipated. Tom Pepper continued spreading rumors, this time targeting the Young family along with others, stirring unrest throughout the valley. By now, Kan had several grown sons, some over thirty. Most had remained close, though Bart had struck out on his own—becoming a gold-mine millionaire gunman in the Northwest, leaving behind a trail of bodies in his wake.

All the tensions in the valley came to a head on New Year’s Day, 1895. Frank Loring, Monte Leach’s brother-in-law, was hosting a community potluck on the Leach ranch. Kan Young and his wife attended, though all of their sons were in Moab at a New Year’s Grand Ball. Kan had arrived expecting to see Tom Pepper, whom he felt owed an apology after accusing Kan’s son Ed of shooting Pepper’s horse. Kan had also brought some of his own whiskey to the potluck. Hailing from the hills of Tennessee, he carried a fierce pride and the knowledge of how to make fine whiskey, a skill passed down through his family.

As the party continued, Kan drank more of his whiskey while talking with people from Paradox and nearby Bedrock. The more he listened, the more rumors he heard about his family and neighbors—and the angrier he became. Finally, the slander pushed him over the edge. He went outside, grabbed his well-oiled .44 revolver from his saddlebag, and stormed down the trail toward a cabin on the Leach land where Tom Pepper was known to stay. Stumbling along the uneven path, Kan shouted expletives the entire way, revolver clutched in his hand.

When Kan reached the cabin, Tom Pepper stepped out from the corner, Winchester in hand. Kan spotted the movement and raised his .44 with surprising speed, given his inebriated state. The lead round found its mark, slamming into Pepper and knocking him off his feet. Pepper struggled to regain his footing as Kan advanced, intent on finishing the job. Just as Kan pulled the trigger again, the hammer struck the receiver—but the firing pin snapped. His next round failed to fire, metal ringing hollowly, signaling to Kan that the danger had shifted. Frantically trying to fire more rounds, convinced it was only a misfire, Kan left himself vulnerable. Pepper swung his rifle up, and in that moment, Kan had no chance. Full of rage and realizing he would die alone at the hands of his enemy, Kan Young faced his end. The wounded Pepper pulled the trigger, and Kan collapsed instantly.

Standing above Paradox Valley centuries later, I couldn’t help but think of the fiery tensions that had once raged here—not just in the flames of dispute, but in the very land itself. The valley still demanded respect, whether from men armed with revolvers or men battling the relentless heat.

High on the mesa above Paradox, I was surrounded by blackened earth. The Deer Creek Fire had burned over 17,000 acres, leaving some areas utterly charred. As far as the eye could see, twisting trunks stood like solemn sentinels on the horizon, black as coal. Between them, a mixture of dry desert dust and ash coated the ground—every sage stem, every bit of lichen, and any foliage besides the thick trunks had been reduced to nothing. Walking on the soft, pillowy ash felt like trekking across another planet. The wide gaps between the remaining trunks hinted at the fire’s speed, likely propelled by gusting winds that fed its flames. In the right conditions, such fires could shoot flames over 100 feet into the air.

I moved through that lunar-like forest, keeping my eyes on the northern horizon for any sign of smoke. I checked the bases of the remaining trees for residual heat, but found none, and the afternoon passed without a single wisp of smoke. I hiked a little east, hoping for a better vantage, and came to the edge of a small draw, roughly a quarter-mile across. Looking down, the devastation was just as complete. Flames had leapt a forty-foot wall of rock, continuing their relentless sweep across the landscape.

Just as fire had once scorched the land, greed and ambition ravaged Paradox Valley in the 1890s. When Kan’s sons returned, they were furious, determined to see Tom Pepper prosecuted for murder. But James Galloway had other plans. His son John, the Justice of the Peace in Bedrock, ensured that the right “witnesses” were in place. Their testimonies were never formally recorded, and they quickly sided with a self-defense motion. The result left the entire Young family bitter and enraged at both Pepper and the Galloways, especially Kan's eldest, Bill Young.

As the Deer Creek Fire raged on and I drove into Paradox day after day, I found myself curious about the sleepy little hamlet and its unusual name. Surely there was more to its story. After some online digging, I discovered The Hell That Was Paradox by Howard E. Greager—whose father’s first wife was one of Kan Young’s grandchildren. Much of what I’ve learned about Paradox comes from his research and interviews with residents in the 1990s. Sitting on the mesa above the valley, I read a copy of his book, absorbing the recollections of people who remembered the Youngs and Galloways in the early 20th century.

Beyond the feud between the Youngs and the Galloways, Paradox Valley is full of other wild tales from the frontier. Outlaws shot at people for amusement, Butch Cassidy makes an appearance, and a mysterious dangerous substance emerged, one that would eventually have ocean-spanning implications. Next month, I’ll continue the Paradox series, delving deeper into the stories and history of this peculiar haven tucked away in a forgotten corner of Colorado.

Sources:

Greager, H. E. (2000). The Hell That Was Paradox. Howard E. Greager ; Printed by B & B Printers.