They Shouldn’t Have Taken That Trail… –
12 people walked into a canyon in western Colorado. They had permits, itineraries, emergency contacts. They had done everything right. Eight days later, a ranger found them, all 12, all dead, spread across a quarter mile of canyon floor. No witnesses, no phones, no way out. And the three men who did it went home, slept in their beds, and showed up to hand out missing posters.
This is Serpent Creek Canyon, September 12th, 1992. Western Colorado, the Uncompahgre Plateau. Not the Colorado of ski resorts and mountain towns. This is the other Colorado, high desert, sandstone canyons, silence that goes on for miles. By 1992, the region had been in economic collapse for over a decade.
The uranium boom that had built these towns was long gone. Naturita, once nearly 2,000 people, had shrunk to fewer than 600. Storefronts empty, schools consolidated, young people gone. Those who remained were tied to land their families had worked for generations, or people who simply preferred to disappear. Serpent Creek Canyon sat 14 miles from the nearest maintained trail.
Sandstone walls rising 300 feet above the creek bed. Cottonwood thickets so dense you could be 20 yards from someone and never know they were there. Sound bounced off the rock walls in strange ways. It was the kind of place where things could happen and no one would ever hear them. By fall of 1992, someone knew that. Russell James Vickers, 34 years old, the eldest son of a ranching family that had worked the same 200 acres outside Naturita since the 1940s.
Good student, football player, a conventional path. Until the mid-80s, when the ranching economy collapsed and foreclosures swept the region. The Vickers family lost their land in 1987. Russell’s father, unable to accept it, died by suicide less than a year later. By 1992, Russell was accumulating debt.
He had a wife, a daughter, no way forward. His younger brother, Curtis, 29, was worse. Methamphetamine paranoia. A trailer outside town. Quick to anger. Loyal to the point of recklessness. And Michael Hobart, 38, had known the Vickers brothers since childhood. No steady income. No family. Living in a camper on a cousin’s property.
The one who always seemed to know where money could be found. In the summer of 1992, all three were drowning. Russell owed more than $8,000, facing eviction. Curtis about to lose his truck. Hobart given a deadline to start paying rent or get out. That’s when the offer came. A contact in Cortez, a mid-level distributor named Eduardo Salinas, needed someone to pick up a drug shipment in the back country.
Methamphetamine and cocaine. Collect it. Transport it north to Grand Junction. The pay, $15,000. More than Russell could make in 6 months. A single trip, Curtis said. No violence. No direct contact with anyone. Russell had misgivings. He knew what this was. He also knew his family depended on him. He agreed. September 10th, 1992.
The three men loaded Russell’s truck, a 1984 Chevrolet K10 with a camper shell. Three firearms and a hunting rifle, a shotgun, a 9-mm pistol, CB radio, topographic maps, written instructions from Salinas. The meeting point, an abandoned mining camp at the head of Serpent Creek Canyon. The courier would arrive at noon on September 12th.
They drove out on the evening of September 10th. Set up camp in the clearing, built a fire, and waited. They had no idea that 12 other people were already descending into that same canyon. The first group, seven experienced hikers from Boulder, two married couples, three others, ages 27 to 41. Experienced, prepared, permits filed.
The second, five college students from Fort Collins, ages 19 to 23. Last trip before fall semester. Less experienced, but fit, enthusiastic, ready. The two groups met at a trail junction on the morning of September 11th, compared maps, found they were heading the same direction. Thomas Aldridge, an engineer from Boulder, suggested they travel together for safety, for companionship.
PART 2 👍👍
Everyone agreed. By mid-afternoon on September 11th, all 12 had descended into Serpent Creek Canyon, and made camp near a series of creek pools, 3 miles downstream from where Russell, Curtis, and Hobart were waiting. The hikers had no idea anyone else was there. That evening, Rebecca Haynes wrote in her journal, “This place feels timeless.
No sound but wind and water. Hard to believe we’re only a few hours from civilization.” She would be dead in less than 24 hours. September 12th, noon. The courier didn’t arrive. Russell tried the CB radio, no response. Hobart said to wait another hour. Curtis wanted to leave. Russell waited. By mid-afternoon, it was clear no one was coming.
Russell tried the radio again. This time, someone answered. Not Selenas, a voice he didn’t recognize. The man called himself Marco. The courier had been stopped at a checkpoint near Dove Creek, the shipment seized. Marco’s voice was cold. He said Salinas held them responsible for the loss.
They now owed $40,000, 2 weeks to pay. Then the transmission ended. Curtis said it out loud. We’re done. For 2 hours the three men sat in the clearing trying to find a way out of a situation with no exit. They couldn’t run. Russell had a wife and daughter. They couldn’t pay. $40,000 in 2 weeks was impossible.
They couldn’t go to the police. They’d confessed to the drug operation. At 4:30 p.m. Curtis heard voices. He froze, moved back to camp, told Russell and Hobart. All three grabbed their weapons and went to the edge of the clearing to look. Through the trees, 12 hikers moving up the canyon, talking, laughing, unaware of anything. The logical move was to stay hidden and let them pass, but Hobart, whose paranoia had been building all day, said something that changed everything.
He suggested the hikers might not be hikers at all. That they could be scouts sent by Salinas to watch them. The timing, he said, was suspicious. They were coming from the exact direction the courier should have come from. Curtis initially dismissed it, but Hobart kept pushing and Russell, exhausted, frightened, raised another concern.
If the hikers saw their truck, their camp, and later reported it to the sheriff, it could tie them to the failed drug operation. Even if the hikers were innocent, their presence was a risk. The three men stayed hidden as the hikers drew closer. At approximately 5:00 p.m., two lead hikers entered the clearing.
They stopped, looked around, began discussing whether to camp there, then started to walk back toward the others. That’s when Curtis Vickers made his decision. He stood, stepped into the clearing, shotgun raised, and shouted for them to stop. Thomas Aldridge raised his hands immediately. Rebecca Haynes stepped backward.
Curtis ordered them to the center of the clearing. Russell and Hobart emerged from the trees, all three armed, all three visible. Within minutes, all 12 hikers were gathered in front of them. Russell spoke first, calmer than his brother. He said they’d entered a restricted area, asked if they’d seen anyone else, if they had radios. David Kern admitted they had a satellite emergency device.
Russell ordered them to hand it over. For several minutes, it looked like it might end there. Frightened hikers, armed men, a tense standoff. Russell even told them they could go. But Hobart wouldn’t let it end. He kept insisting the gear looked too new, too clean, that no one hikes into this specific canyon unless they’ve been sent.
Curtis started to absorb it, started demanding to know who they worked for. When the hikers insisted they were just on vacation, Curtis called them liars. Russell tried to de-escalate, told the hikers to take their packs and leave, said they had 60 seconds. It should have ended there. Then a 20-year-old college student named Emily Sanderson asked a single question.
She asked if they could have their emergency device back. She explained they were 3 days from the nearest road. If something went wrong, an injury, a medical emergency, they’d have no way to call for help. Curtis interpreted it as defiance. He stepped forward and struck her across the face with the stock of his shotgun.
She fell, bleeding. Jason Porter moved to help her. Curtis swung the weapon toward him. Thomas Aldridge, the engineer who had suggested the two groups travel together, shouted at Curtis to stop. Said they were unarmed, cooperative, no threat to anyone. Said violence was unnecessary. Curtis told him to shut up.
Aldridge kept speaking. Curtis shot him. The blast echoed off the canyon walls. Aldridge collapsed, dead within seconds. The screaming started. Some hikers dropped to the ground. Some ran. Hobart, convinced now they were under attack, raised his pistol. And that was it. The threshold was crossed.
What followed was not a coordinated execution. It was a collapse. 40 minutes of chaos and gunfire in a canyon where the sound had nowhere to go. Rebecca Haynes, shot while kneeling over Aldridge’s body. Jason Porter, shot trying to help Emily Sanderson. Brian Castillo, hit crawling toward the tree line. Michael Torres, shot in the back 30 yards from the clearing.
Anna Dellaqua, a teacher from Boulder, pole, pleaded. She said she had children. She said her family didn’t know where she was. She would do anything. Curtis looked at her for a long moment, then shot her in the chest. Sarah Lynn was 19 years old. She’d hidden behind one of the collapsed mining structures, pressing her hands against her mouth to stay quiet.
Hobart found her, called out to Curtis. Curtis walked over, looked down, and fired. She was the last. 40 minutes, 12 people, none armed, none given a real chance to run. Russell Vickers stood at the edge of the clearing through most of it. He didn’t fire his rifle. He also didn’t stop them.
When it was over, Curtis was the first to speak. He said they needed to hide the bodies. For the next 3 hours as daylight faded, the three men dragged 12 people into the brush, covered them with branches and rock, piled all the gear into the truck, attempted to clean blood from the sandstone. The sandstone absorbed it. The volume was too great.
They drove out of the canyon after 9:00 p.m. Disposed of the hikers’ gear in a ravine off the highway, smashed the emergency satellite device, threw it in a separate location. Russell arrived home at 2:00 a.m. His wife Linda asked where he’d been. He said camping with Curtis and Hobart.
She asked if everything was all right. He said it was. He went to bed and slept for 14 hours. September 19th, 1992. 7 days later, Forest Service Ranger David Kolchak was doing a routine inspection of trail conditions after storm damage. Serpent Creek Canyon wasn’t on his primary route. He decided to detour to check for erosion along the drainage.
At 3:30 p.m., he noticed a smell, faint, unmistakable. He followed it, found brush and rocks arranged over a low depression, pulled some aside, and found Sarah Lynn. Within hours, the full scope became clear. 12 bodies, a quarter mile of canyon floor, all showing signs of gunshot trauma, all partially concealed, none carrying identification.
The investigation landed with Detective Lieutenant Mark Hensley. By September 21st, all 12 were identified through dental records, families notified. The media, which had been covering it as a possible hiking accident, now understood they were looking at a mass homicide. The breakthrough came on September 28th.
A rancher named Carl Jensen called the sheriff’s office. Said he’d seen a Chevrolet K10 with a camper shell driving out of County Road 90.7 fast in the dark on the night of September 12th. He recognized it. It belonged to Russell Vickers, a man he knew from town. All three men were brought in for questioning on September 30th.
All three denied everything, claimed they’d been camping near Disappointment Creek, 50 miles away. Hensley got search warrants. Inside Russell’s truck, blood DNA matched to three of the victims, fibers from the hikers’ backpacks. In Curtis’s trailer, a 12-gauge shotgun, ammunition matching casings from the scene.
In Hobart’s camper, the 9-mm pistol, same match. October 4th, 1992, all three arrested. 12 counts of first-degree murder. Hobart was the first to talk. He described the failed drug transaction, the paranoia, the cascade of decisions. His account was self-serving, but it gave investigators the framework they needed. Russell asked to speak next without his attorney.
His confession was detailed, raw, and emotionally devastated. He described watching his brother shoot Thomas Aldridge as the moment everything changed. He described standing at the edge of the clearing paralyzed. He said he didn’t understand how it had happened. He said he still doesn’t. All three men were tried separately. All three were convicted on all 12 counts.
Hobart, life without parole, 12 consecutive sentence. Curtis, death by lethal injection. He waived his remaining appeals in 2007. His final words, “I’m sorry for what I did. I’m sorry for who I became.” He was executed on August 14th, 2007, 44 years old. Hobart died in prison in 2018, liver disease, 64 years old.
Russell Vickers is still incarcerated. In a 2015 interview, he said, “I think about those people every day. I see their faces. I don’t expect forgiveness. I don’t expect understanding. I just want people to know it wasn’t supposed to happen. None of it was supposed to happen.” In 2002, a small memorial plaque was installed in Serpent Creek Canyon bearing 12 names and a single line, in memory of those who came here seeking peace and found tragedy instead.
Thomas Aldridge, Rebecca Haynes, Jason Porter, Sarah Lynn, David Kern, Brian Castillo, Michael Torres, Anna Delaqua, Emily Sanderson, Jennifer Callahan, Christopher Young, Patrick Morrison. They had done nothing wrong. They had filed their permits. They had told someone where they were going. They had been careful.
They were simply in the wrong canyon on the wrong afternoon within earshot of three men who had run out of options and made the worst decision of their lives and the worst decision of 12 others’ deaths. If you stayed until the end, it means something. This story is built from court transcripts, forensic reports, and then documents that spent years in boxes before anyone thought they still mattered.
What happened in that canyon still doesn’t fully make sense. 12 people, 40 minutes, three men who weren’t killers until the moment they were. Thomas Aldridge spoke up when he could have stayed silent. Sarah Lynn hid when she had almost no chance left. They all made choices in those 40 minutes.
We just never hear about theirs. Which moment in this story stayed with you? Tell me in the comments. I read everyone. If cases like this are what keep you coming back, make sure you’re subscribed because some of these stories were buried for a reason and the deeper you go into them, the less they feel like accidents.
