"Some of us have known each other for a long time, others we just met last weekend, but they are all part of this family," one of the glamisdunes.com enthusiasts told me. "We do not discriminate if you are sleeping in your truck and have a 10-year-old toy or if someone has a 40-foot pusher with all the bling. We come together on equal ground because we all share the love and passion for the dunes. Not only do we do the sand, but we gather for weekly nights out wherever we live, river trips in the summer, kids' birthdays and the list goes on." He extended that hospitality to me, asking if I wanted to partake in their granular Mecca. Things were finally looking up, especially at the promise of their Thanksgiving feast that night.
My first experience in sand was thrilling. I was not sure if I would be able to keep up with the 30-person group, especially riding with my camera bag. The leader gave me a few pointers on riding in the dunes and told the last guy (with the radio) to keep an eye on me. Even without having sand paddles on my rig (thanks, Bartels), riding in the dunes is a complete blast. It is an exhilarating rush of freedom. There are no specific trails you have to follow. It makes you want to flip out of your childhood sandbox.
After the ride, I finally found the crew Bartels had told me about. They were camped right next to the glamisdunes.com guys. The Ford was actually a Chevy (thanks again). I introduced myself and joined the gigantic feast.
They had a serious spread that required 15 bingo tables. There was every type of turkey you could imagine: deep-fried, roasted on a Weber, cooked in an earth pit and oven-baked in a RV. This place was great, but where was the infamous carnage and topless sights? I did have an assignment after all, but after such a heavy dose of tryptophan, I passed out.
Friday
I woke up at four in the morning cold and wet. I decided to leave my tent and raid the leftovers from Thanksgiving. I had a tasty pecan pie for breakfast.
Most of the action at Glamis is at Oldsmobile Hill. It's one of the only places people can still congregate despite the increasing land closures. Motorheads, gang-bangers, white trash, duners, quads, trucks, bikes, pimped-out golf carts and even a few SUVs with blinged-out rims inhabited the hill. A melting pot, this was the Glamis that I'd heard about. Yet, everyone seemed to get along peacefully until law enforcement officers decided to break up the fun-perhaps some sand got in their standard-issue polyester pants. They lined up at one side of the dune, pulled out paintball guns loaded with pepper spray balls and told everyone to leave. Those who were slow to abide were hit with the balls of pain A small riot broke out: People panicked, and a few guys decided to loot some coolers on the way out. A weird scene.
Saturday
I finally made it to the Boardmanville bar, half-expecting to see a pre-Passion Mel Gibson. Armed with my trusty squirt gun while wishing I had a Super Soaker instead, I walked into the watering hole and was surprised to see thousands, maybe millions, of dollar bills stapled all over the walls, decorating the joint. Each greenback was autographed by its previous owner. The hoodlum in me immediately thought of ways to pocket this treasure, but I realized that it would be wrong to take these artifacts, and if I got caught, I would surely be left for dead, my carcass eaten by buzzards.
I asked a few lovely bar patrons where I could find the boobs and carnage shots I was so desperately seeking. A local said all the parties are at Gecko Campground after the races, but I would have to hurry because they started at three.