Chapter 3: Wheels in the Sand

On July 20, the convoy gathered in Silver Hollow.

The group met up at a dusty truck stop on the edge of town. The truck stop’s neon sign flickered above the parking lot, and the smell of burnt coffee drifted from the diner next door. Gas pumps ticked, flies buzzed, and the mountains shimmered blue in the distance.

Everyone introduced themselves and shared their excitement for the journey ahead. They had some experience with the Rocky Mountain Highway, so they weren’t complete rookies—but State Route 318 is nothing like the Salt Flats.

A few swapped trail stories over Red Bulls and donuts. One guy even wore a “Been There, Dune That” T-shirt.

The next day, the team did a so-called “equipment check”—just glancing at their gas and water, making sure the trucks started.

It took all of ten minutes. The cook pointed out a slow tire leak, but everyone waved it off.

A real expedition would check every part, plan detailed routes and backups, carry multiple communication devices, arrange emergency contacts, and prepare for every contingency…

Someone might even tape a laminated checklist to the steering wheel. Here, the only checklist was in someone’s head.

They did none of that.

Nobody wanted to be the buzzkill who held up the group.

Otherwise, what happened next wouldn’t have happened.

Hank would later note how small mistakes, ignored early, always snowballed in the desert.

At 5:30 a.m. on July 22, the convoy set out from Silver Hollow.

The horizon glowed gold as they rolled out. Families waved from the motel parking lot, snapping photos of the gleaming trucks lined up in formation.

Ten off-road vehicles lined up outside the city. Two guide vehicles: Guide Duncan’s Ford Raptor in front, Guide Jackson’s F-150 bringing up the rear. Seven tourist vehicles in the middle, all Idaho tourists recruited by the modification shop.

The convoy looked impressive, dust trailing behind them as they hit the asphalt, spirits high.

Originally, the Idaho team had nine trucks, but now there were ten. Another convoy’s guide had a family emergency and canceled, but one truck from California didn’t want to give up the trip. Through Guide Jackson’s connections, they joined this team. Since Guide Jackson said the owner was a friend, everyone accepted it.

The newcomer arrived late—license plate still California, surf sticker on the back window. He mostly kept to himself at the first meet-up, eyes glued to his phone.

This was the unmodified Land Cruiser.

It gleamed in the morning light, city tires still shiny, out of place among the battered trucks.

That very noon, as soon as they entered the desert’s edge, disaster struck.

They hit a soft patch of sand and the Land Cruiser dug in like a stubborn mule. Everyone else killed their engines and climbed out, dust swirling around their boots.

Predictably, the rookie Land Cruiser got stuck almost immediately. The others had to tow it repeatedly, and it limped forward. Before long, its right front tire blew out.

The California owner looked sheepish as folks tried to help, sweat already soaking through their shirts.

In short, the day was a string of bad luck. The Land Cruiser simply couldn’t handle the desert.

It overheated, coughed, and threatened to stall every mile. People started making nervous jokes, but nobody laughed too hard.

This was nature’s warning.

A hot wind rattled the truck doors. Even the birds seemed to steer clear.

City tires aren’t meant for such harsh terrain; getting stuck increases gas consumption, and a blowout slows the whole group.

The mechanic tried to patch the tire, hands shaking with frustration. Someone snapped a photo, later captioned, “When your city ride meets real life.”

If the team had been truly professional, they would have reassessed the trip, sent the Land Cruiser back, or called it off altogether.

The guides held a quick, whispered debate, but peer pressure won out—nobody wanted to be the first to bail.

But everyone, led by Guide Jackson, treated it as a minor hiccup.

Jackson grinned, spun a tale about the time he once fixed a broken axle with duct tape. The group relaxed, believing him.

Though they didn’t reach their intended destination on time, morale stayed high. They chose to camp right there.

The sun dipped low, painting the dunes in shades of orange and purple. Someone turned up a Bluetooth speaker, country music floating on the wind. But as the sun set, the laughter faded. Some folks stared into their beers, the desert’s silence settling in.

Around the campfire, Guide Jackson toasted everyone, the cook’s burgers and a few beers washing away all complaints.

People swapped stories and photos, pretending for a night that everything was under control.

But covering up problems isn’t the same as solving them.

Later, as folks crawled into their tents, the unease settled back in. Some couldn’t sleep, listening to the wind rattle the tent flaps.

At noon on July 23, another problem arose.

By midday, the sun was merciless, baking the sand to shimmering white. The trucks shimmered in the heat, metal hot enough to brand cattle.

The guide’s route planning was off: the sand dunes ran north-south, but they were driving east-west, meaning they were climbing uphill the entire way.

Wheels spun, engines overheated, tempers started to fray.

Some vehicles lacked auxiliary gas tanks. The Land Cruiser kept getting stuck.

It became the group’s inside joke: “Somebody check on the Cruiser!” But everyone knew it was slowing them down.

Off-roaders already burn a lot of gas. In the desert, fuel consumption is 50–100% higher than normal.

Coolers emptied fast. By the hour, the group’s estimate of “enough fuel” dropped.

The whole team was burning fuel faster than they could drink water.

Cans rattled empty in the bed of the guide truck. Someone started counting gallons like a gambler counts chips.

One vehicle reported running out of gas, then two Dodge Ram TRXs also reported empty tanks.

The radio crackled with tense voices, each new empty tank adding to the collective anxiety.

Clearly, nobody had told the owners to plan their fuel needs before setting out.

In the silence that followed, a few people glanced down at their phones—no bars, no hope.

But Guide Jackson remained confident, saying they had buried fuel in the desert and could just dig it up to refill.

His casual tone unsettled some, but nobody argued. The thought of hidden reserves lifted spirits, if only briefly.

But when they dug up the fuel and began refueling, another problem cropped up.

The sun was now high, sweat stinging their eyes as they hauled cans from a shallow pit. The mechanic, red-faced, fumbled with his tools.

The mechanic hadn’t brought special tools. No one supervised or checked the process, and nobody double-checked what fuel went into which truck.

People stood in the shade, sipping warm water, assuming someone else was handling it.

After the mechanic poured in the fuel, everyone was stunned.

There was shouting, cursing, and confusion. People paced circles in the sand, gesturing wildly.

Three vehicles that required premium gasoline got regular instead.

The owners traded nervous looks, realizing they might have just cooked their engines.

High-performance vehicles got low-grade fuel—like feeding Olympic athletes junk food. They might not get sick, but their performance would tank.

A guy in a Rams hat cracked a joke about “feeding steak to a vegan”—nobody laughed.

For the trucks, it meant sluggish acceleration, increased fuel consumption, engine knocking, and possible damage.

As the first engines sputtered, anxiety grew. A sense of doom began to settle over the group.

The owners nervously test-drove their trucks. Fortunately, they could still run, if only just.

Everyone exhaled a little, but the mood had shifted. Doubt was in the air.

But the buried fuel only covered those three trucks. The others were still waiting.

A couple of drivers kicked the sand, cursing quietly. They felt the weight of the situation, and not just from the sun.

Guide Jackson calmly whipped out a satellite phone and called for a fuel truck.

His confidence seemed almost rehearsed. Some wondered if this was part of the plan all along.

Remember the ad? Each fuel truck trip cost $400, and the owners had to pay for the gas, too.

Wallets came out, some reluctantly. The air bristled with whispered complaints.

But in the desert, there was no other option. Everyone had to wait.

No one wanted to risk hiking out. That was a death sentence, and everyone knew it.

That night, everyone seemed calm, but based on what happened the next day, the peace was only surface-deep.

At the campfire, conversation was stilted, the laughter a little too forced. Eyes lingered on empty gas cans and half-charged radios.

A few hours later, that fragile harmony would shatter completely.

Hank would later say, “You could feel the disaster gathering, like a thunderhead ready to burst.”