September 8, 1974. Twin Falls, Idaho. A man strapped into a steam-powered pipe with wings sat staring at a canyon wall.
Most people call it a motorcycle jump. It wasn't. Evel Knievel, the man who made a career out of breaking bones on Harley-Davidson Ironheads, wasn't even on two wheels that day. He was inside the Skycycle X-2, a contraption that looked more like a backyard moon rocket than anything meant for a highway. The Evel Knievel Snake River jump remains the most ambitious, bizarre, and commercially massive failure in the history of extreme sports.
It was a circus. A literal riot broke out the night before.
People expected to see a man fly. Instead, they saw a parachute deploy too early and a multi-million dollar "cycle" drift helplessly to the bottom of the canyon. But if you look past the technical failure, the Snake River Canyon attempt is basically the blueprint for every modern pay-per-view spectacle we see today. It was the birth of the "hype" economy.
The Skycycle X-2: A Rocket, Not a Bike
Robert "Evel" Knievel didn't want to use a rocket. Initially, he approached the Department of the Interior to jump the Grand Canyon. They said no. Flat out. So, he pivoted to private land at Snake River. But there was a problem: no motorcycle on earth could clear the 1,500-foot gap.
Enter Doug Malewicki and Robert Truax.
Truax wasn't some grease monkey; he was a serious rocket engineer who had worked for the Navy and Aerojet. He built the Skycycle X-2. It used a steam-powered engine. Basically, you heated water to a ridiculous temperature under immense pressure, and when you opened the valve, it flashed into steam, creating thrust. It was clean, it was powerful, and it was terrifying.
Knievel hated it. He called it a "prop" in private, but in public, he sold it as the ultimate leap of faith. The physics were simple: the rocket needed to hit about 350 mph to clear the rim.
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The Chaos at the Canyon
The crowd was a nightmare. Estimates say about 30,000 people showed up, many of them "nature's finest" bikers and thrill-seekers who had been drinking in the Idaho sun for days. There wasn't enough security. By the time jump day arrived, the makeshift "Knievelville" camp was a lawless zone.
Bikers toppled beer trucks. They harassed reporters.
In the middle of this, Knievel was dealing with the reality that his test jumps had failed. The Skycycle had already been launched twice without a pilot. Once, it went straight into the river. The second time, the parachute deployed prematurely. Despite the red flags, the pressure from ABC’s Wide World of Sports and the massive live-theater audience meant there was no backing out.
He was trapped by his own marketing.
What Really Happened When the Button Was Pushed
At 3:36 PM, Knievel hit the switch.
The sound was a deafening hiss. The Skycycle X-2 blasted up the ramp. For a split second, it looked like it might actually work. But almost immediately—seconds after clearing the ramp—the drogue parachute deployed.
It was a disaster.
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The parachute acted like an anchor. Instead of soaring across the 1,600-foot wide canyon, the rocket slowed down and began to tumble. The wind caught the silk, and the Skycycle started drifting backward. It didn't even make it halfway across. The crowd watched in a mix of horror and confusion as the rocket floated down toward the Snake River.
Knievel was nearly a dead man. If the rocket had landed in the water, he likely would have drowned, strapped into the cockpit. Fortunately, the wind blew him back toward the canyon wall, and he landed on a rocky ledge just feet from the water's edge.
He survived with a broken nose and some minor scrapes. The jump, technically speaking, was a total "scratch."
The Financial Genius of a Failed Jump
You’d think a failed jump would ruin a guy. Not Evel.
The Evel Knievel Snake River jump was a masterclass in monetization. Knievel had partnered with a young promoter named Jerry Perenchio (who later became a billionaire). They didn't put it on free TV. They sold it to over 300 closed-circuit television locations (movie theaters and arenas) across North America.
- Tickets cost between $10 and $15—big money in '74.
- The total "gate" was estimated around $20 million.
- Knievel's personal take was rumored to be roughly $6 million.
Think about that. He failed the jump, barely got off the ramp, and walked away with more money than most heavyweight boxers made in a decade. It proved that in America, the "attempt" is often more valuable than the "achievement."
Why the Parachute Deployed Early
There’s been decades of debate about the parachute. Some fans claimed Knievel pulled the cord because he was scared. That’s almost certainly false. Knievel was many things—a self-promoter, a hustler—but he wasn't a coward.
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The mechanical failure was likely due to a design flaw in the internal pressure system. The G-forces or a shear pin failure caused the deployment. Robert Truax, the engineer, blamed a mechanical malfunction in the bolt that held the parachute cover.
It was a technical glitch that saved Evel's life but killed the legend of the "successful" jump.
The Legacy of the Snake River Canyon
If you go to Twin Falls today, you can still see the dirt ramp. It’s a literal monument to human ego. It sits there on private land, a massive mound of earth that reminds us of the time a man tried to jump a canyon in a steam-powered tin can.
In 2016, a professional stuntman named Eddie Braun finally completed the jump. He used a rocket called "Evel Spirit," designed by Robert Truax’s son. He cleared the canyon perfectly. It proved the physics were sound—the tech just wasn't ready in 1974.
But nobody remembers Eddie Braun’s success the way they remember Evel’s failure.
Actionable Insights for History and Stunt Enthusiasts
If you're looking to dive deeper into the mechanics of the jump or even visit the site, here is how to approach it:
- Visit the Site: The ramp is located on the south rim of the Snake River Canyon in Twin Falls, Idaho. It is on private property, but you can see it clearly from the Centennial Trail. It’s a haunting sight.
- Watch the Footage: Don't just look for the short clips. Find the full ABC Wide World of Sports broadcast. It captures the tension and the visible fear in Knievel’s eyes that short reels miss.
- Study the Engineering: For those interested in the "how," look up the Skycycle X-2 blueprints. It’s a fascinating look at 1970s "garage" aerospace engineering that used superheated water instead of volatile chemicals.
- The "Evel Spirit" Comparison: Contrast the 1974 footage with Eddie Braun’s 2016 jump. It highlights how much safety technology and launch stability have evolved in forty years.
The Evel Knievel Snake River jump wasn't a triumph of physics. It was a triumph of personality. It showed us that a man could fail spectacularly and still become an immortal icon, provided he had enough nerve to strap himself into the seat in the first place.
Next Steps for Deep Research:
To truly understand the impact of this event, look into the business archives of Top Rank, the company that handled the closed-circuit broadcast. It reveals how the financial structure of the jump paved the way for the modern UFC and WWE pay-per-view models. Additionally, researching the Twin Falls Sheriff’s reports from that weekend provides a gritty, unvarnished look at the social chaos that surrounded the event, which was largely scrubbed from the official televised versions.