Chapter 2: The Price of Adventure

June 2023. At a vehicle modification shop in Boise, Idaho, a message appeared in a small online community: “Organizing a self-driving trip on the ‘Great Trail.’ Service guarantee fee: $1,400 per person. Fuel transport inside the desert: $400 per trip (fuel not included). Departing mid-July, 7 days total.”

The ad went up on the local Overlanding forum and a couple of Facebook off-roading groups. It immediately caught the eye of young adventurers and midlife crisis dads alike.

In the adventure market, this price was a steal.

People joked that you couldn’t get a decent rooftop tent for $1,400, let alone a weeklong desert adventure. Someone replied, "Heck, that’s barely a lift kit and a couple of Yeti coolers."

A real Salt Flats expedition group costs at least $4,500, with complicated procedures. You have to heavily modify your truck and apply for approval.

There were whole YouTube channels devoted to prepping for this kind of trip—most people spent more time researching tires than picking out baby names.

Plenty of people want to see the Salt Flats but don’t want the hassle. So, a team of nine trucks and twenty people quickly came together.

The group text thread blew up with excited emojis, map screenshots, and “Can’t wait!” messages.

Notice, the ad said the destination was the “Great Trail”—a relatively safe self-driving route between Silver Hollow and Flagstaff, the so-called “north route” across the Salt Flats.

That’s the one all the glossy magazine features cover—the one people’s moms would let them attempt.

But in reality, they took the south route.

It was the route that old-timers at the Silver Hollow tavern called “the back door to Hell.”

A participant later revealed, “The organizer said this way we could avoid checkpoints and reduce trouble.”

The logic was simple: less paperwork, more freedom, and no rangers peering into your cooler. But it came with serious risks.

When recruiting, the organizer boasted:

“Professional guide, professional logistics, satellite phone—we have it all.”

The Facebook event page had a shiny banner, with words like “Safety First!” in bold font, sprinkled with exclamation points.

They even posted beautiful photos of the Salt Flats.

Filters cranked up, blue skies and golden dunes—the kind of images that make you want to quit your job and hit the road.

And yes, the Salt Flats are breathtaking. Sandstone formations, the ruins of lost towns, salt flats—a mysterious landscape that draws photographers, geologists, and adventurers from all over.

Influencers often posed on cracked white plains with arms outstretched, chasing the perfect sunset.

But it’s also a military restricted zone and a nature reserve. Entry without permission is strictly forbidden. On top of that, the environment is brutally harsh. Without experts and proper preparation, entering is courting death.

There were stories of people fined, arrested, or simply never heard from again—cautionary tales in every off-roader’s forum.

Still, the ad was enough to attract people with little outdoor experience.

The allure of social media bragging rights was too strong for some folks to resist.

So, what did this $1,400 “adventure package” include?

First, the “guide”:

Guide Jackson—he’d been in and out of the Salt Flats seven times, a man as swift as the wind. But we know how his story ended.

His reputation was more rumor than fact—a name dropped in barroom stories, never in official guidebooks.

There was also a team leader—Guide Duncan, brought in as backup by Guide Jackson. A mechanic named Luke, and a cook.

Duncan claimed to have led snowmobile tours in Montana, but the desert was a different beast. Luke, the mechanic, had a solid beard and a nervous laugh. The cook, everyone agreed, was the real deal: ex-Army, could whip up chili from anything.

Pay attention to the mechanic—he’ll be important later.

People in the group chat joked about “the mechanic curse” after a few mishaps on previous trips.

Now, the vehicles and equipment.

For a real desert crossing, an off-road vehicle should at least be equipped with: large sand tires, raised chassis, winch, traction boards, spare gas cans, roof tents, and so on. Otherwise, it’s like climbing Everest in flip-flops.

Forums were filled with “build threads” showing off customized rigs—these trucks, though, were mostly stock.

But in this convoy, there was actually a Toyota Land Cruiser that hadn’t been modified at all (we’ll call it the Land Cruiser from now on).

It still had its Boise dealership stickers and shiny chrome, but no skid plates or sand tires—just the basics for city driving.

As for communications, the bare minimum should be two satellite phones, GPS navigation, and emergency beacons. In the desert, communication is your lifeline.

Someone joked that all they needed was a couple of walkie-talkies and a prayer.

Supplies? A professional team would bring 1.5 times the needed water and food, at least 1.3 gallons of water per person per day. And since the vehicles are all gas guzzlers, fuel reserves should be maxed out.

The shopping list, according to one member’s Instagram, was mostly granola bars, a case of Monster Energy, and a family-size bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos.

But due to errors in timing and route planning, this convoy ended up using almost double the expected fuel—setting the stage for disaster.

They hadn’t accounted for the slow crawl of underpowered vehicles or the blazing July heat. The gas vanished faster than anyone expected.

So, it turned out “professional” was just a word. This was an entirely amateur operation.

If you peeled back the surface, it was like a bunch of college kids playing at being explorers.

Why did they dare to do this? Because the “Salt Flats North Route” had become a well-known route in certain circles. Anyone who finished it could brag for a decade, and no previous groups had met with disaster.

Instagram was filled with victory posts—sunset silhouettes, beaming grins, hashtags like #saltflatssurvivor.

Surely, they thought, we won’t be the unlucky ones, right?

That’s the true tragedy of this accident. If not for the string of blunders and reckless choices that followed, they might have survived.

Hank would later call it “the curse of beginner’s luck”—the belief that disaster only happens to other people.