I’ve driven past Goblin Valley State Park three times before actually stopping, which feels ridiculous now.
The place sits in south-central Utah, roughly 216 miles from Salt Lake City—give or take depending on how many wrong turns you make near Green River—and it’s one of those geological oddities that looks fake until you’re standing in it. The hoodoos here, these mushroom-shaped rock formations sculpted from Entrada sandstone, cluster together in valleys that genuinely resemble a crowd of frozen goblins. The sandstone itself dates back to the Middle Jurassic period, around 170 million years ago, when this entire region was a massive desert system with tidal flats and shallow seas. Wind and water have been carving these formations for maybe 10 to 15 million years, erosion working faster on the softer layers while harder caprock on top creates those distinctive bulbous heads. It’s the kind of place that makes you feel small in a way that’s somehow not terrible.
Here’s the thing: most people discover Goblin Valley by accident or because someone told them to go. It’s not on the way to anywhere particularly famous, wedged between Capitol Reef and Canyonlands, both of which get way more attention.
The Entrada Formation’s Weird Geology and Why It Matters More Than You’d Think
Entrada sandstone is everywhere in this part of Utah—you see it in Arches, in the San Rafael Swell, all over—but Goblin Valley showcases what happens when erosion gets really specific. The formation has three distinct layers: the Dewey Bridge member at the bottom (mudstone, mostly), the Slick Rock member in the middle (that’s your main hoodoo material), and the Moab member on top. The Slick Rock layer is what carved into these goblin shapes because it erodes unevenly. Water seeps into cracks, freezes, expands, breaks off chunks. Wind sandblasts the softer spots. You end up with these top-heavy sculptures that look precarious but have been standing for thousands of years, some of them anyway.
I used to think hoodoos were just a desert quirk, but turns out they’re geological markers of very specific conditions—you need alternating hard and soft rock layers, minimal vegetation, and the right climate patterns. Goblin Valley has all three.
The Drive In Is Half the Experience and Totally Underrated
The approach to Goblin Valley from Highway 24 is about twelve miles of paved road that cuts through Temple Mountain and the San Rafael Reef. You pass through this landscape that shifts from scrubland to layered red rock walls to suddenly opening up into valleys filled with formations. The drive itself is weirdly meditative if you’re into that, or just boring if you’re not. I’ve done it in blazing summer heat when the road shimmers and in early spring when wildflowers—mostly desert paintbrush and purple scorpionweed—dot the roadside. The state park entrance is clearly marked, and from there it’s another few miles to the main observation area where you can actually see the goblin formations spread out below.
Walking Among the Hoodoos Feels Like Trespassing on Another Planet Honestly
Once you’re down in the valley itself—there are marked trails but also wide-open areas where you can just wander—the hoodoos surround you in this chaotic, almost absurd density.
Some are ten feet tall, some closer to twenty, and they’re packed together in clusters with narrow passages between them. The sandstone is this rusty red-orange color, darker in shadows, almost glowing in direct sun. Kids love climbing on them, which park rangers tolerate up to a point. The rock is soft enough that you can see erosion happening in real time if you pay attention—fresh cracks, new weathering patterns, chunks that have recently fallen. I’ve touched the surface of these things and had red dust come off on my fingers, which made me think about how temporary all this actually is, geologically speaking. Wait—maybe that’s dramatic, but it definately made an impression.
What the Science Actually Tells Us About How Long These Formations Last
Erosion rates in Goblin Valley aren’t perfectly documented, but studies on similar Entrada sandstone formations suggest the hoodoos erode at roughly a few millimeters per year, depending on weather patterns. That doesn’t sound like much until you realize that a really intense flash flood or freeze-thaw cycle can take down a whole formation overnight. Park records show formations that existed in photographs from the 1960s that aren’t there anymore. New ones form, old ones collapse—it’s this ongoing process that you’re only seeing a snapshot of. Climate change is likely accelerating this, though I haven’t seen definitive studies specific to Goblin Valley. Increased precipitation intensity and temperature swings would logically speed things up.
Why Visiting Now Might Be Better Than Waiting Because Geology Doesn’t Pause
I guess what struck me most is that Goblin Valley won’t look the same in fifty years, or a hundred. The formations you see now are unique to this moment in geological time. There’s no guarantee that specific goblin you photographed will still be standing next decade. That impermanence adds something to the experience—not urgency exactly, but awareness. The park sees around 80,000 visitors annually, which is tiny compared to Zion’s 4.5 million, so it’s not overcrowded. You can still have whole sections of the valley to yourself if you go early morning or late afternoon. The light then is better anyway, raking across the formations and creating shadows that make the goblin shapes even more pronounced. I’ve been there at midday when everything’s washed out and flat, and honestly it loses some magic. Timing matters.
Anyway, if you’re driving through Utah and have a few hours, it’s worth the detour.
