In the morning we had decisions to make.

P had some coaching work booked and we fired up the Starlink so she could get on Zoom (there is no escape from Zoom, even in the Sahara). I meanwhile, set out to see if there was a feasible way across the mostly dry bed of the Daoura river.

I followed the bank and the sand cliffs which thankfully began to shrink until they vanished, leaving a smooth path down to the riverbed, perhaps 500m from the original crossing. From there I found a route through the firmest part of the riverbed where the surface silt had hardened. I crossed and recrossed, mapping out a route north again to the start of the track on the other side, dropping GPS waypoints on the Garmin. There did seem to be a stable route but the very last few meters crossed a hardened sandy patch of riverbed with a slick layer of mud on top. If we could get enough momentum though, it seemed like we could cross. When Philippa finished her work we walked the route together making some adjustments. We had lunch, packed up and set off, following the GPX breadcrumbs we’d plotted. Down the hard sand, across the river and towards the mud patch. So far so good. Arnie skittered a bit on the mud but we were across…almost. With 5m to go to reach the hard sand, Arnie’s wheels span and we listed – sickeningly – to the right. We were bogged down. I quickly lifted from the accelerator to stop us digging in any more and turned the engine off.

We looked at each other, neither stating the obvious thought that this could be a serious setback. Getting five and a half tonnes of truck out of a muddy river bed is not to be taken lightly, especially when it might not be possible for a bigger vehicle to reach us and tow us out. We both made the silent decision to not panic. We had food and water and a satellite link. We’d be OK. We climbed out, unbolted the sandladders again and found the shovel. Arnie was keeled over with the back right wheel up to the axle in sand and mud.

The differential was half-buried. The front right was partially bogged down but the wheels on the left side had only dug in a little. So all we needed to do was dig a pathway for the sandladders and dig out all the sand and mud around the back axle to free it up. We unfolded the shovel and took it in turns, lying in the mud and sand watching a puddle of river water form around the most bogged-down wheel. We had a couple of failed attempts to get Arnie out and realised the answer was more digging underneath and even less air in the tires.

It took three hours of continuous digging, kneeling and lying in the muddy sand. When we decided we couldn’t do any more, we packed sticks and brush in front of all four wheels to aid traction. The moment of truth had arrived.

With a stomach full of butterflies I climbed into the cab, started Arnie up, selected low range and a gear and stomped on the accelerator. The engine revved, all four wheels span, sand and sticks flew and with a lurch Arnie was climbing the sandladders and then racing across the last few meters of mud to the safety of the sandbar. Philippa was whooping behind me.

I stopped the engine. We still hadn’t reached the track re-entry point but that was enough excitement for one day.

Arnie was a mess and so were we, but we were also exhilarated.

There are few better feelings than getting yourself out of a hole, as it were.

Tonight we would have the security of the concrete-hard, flat sandbank.

Exhausted and crusty with mud, we toasted the sunset with Morrocan G&T’s (no gin) and thanked our lucky stars. Surely it would be plain sailing from here. Wouldn’t it..?