MOAB never disappoints, and this year it damn near broke us. Our team left Colorado following the rising sun, three rigs deep, loaded to the gills with new parts, torqued beadlocks, and enough caffeine to make a mule tap dance. There was a storm brewing over The Rockies, but we were chasing something different: truth through traction, clarity through chaos, and the cold satisfaction of knowing that if our Cayennes can survive Moab, it can survive anything. We would find this to be more complicated test than we bargained for.
We came to Utah like pilgrims with a death wish and a purpose. This wasn’t a vacation, it was a test. A trial by terrain, judged by the slickrock. Our rigs rolled heavy: Porsche Cayennes, glistening like warhorses down the western slope , armored in our prototype parts and a willing confidence. Warthog, Wilburr & Jeju. We weren't just driving, we were carving lines into the desert that would echo through our suspension and skid plates for decades.
It started, as these things often do, with fire. Not literal, but the fire of 4,000 RPMs bouncing off red rock walls as we gunned it into a slickrock climb that looked more like a cliffside than a trail. One of the rigs kicked sideways halfway up, tires screaming, traction lost. Then it caught again. Thanks to General Tire’s grippy treads clawing at the earth like something alive, the whole thing shot forward like a powerful boulder settling into place. We laughed. We cursed. We toasted the survival of that first climb with lukewarm gas station coffee and moved on.
It didn’t stop. The trails got meaner, the hits got harder. Bent bumpers. Busted pride.
Sand so soft it swallowed your ego. There was a moment on the ridge where we truly believed we might never return with all of our trucks in one piece, and Moab would keep our bones as souvenirs.
But then, like all great pilgrimages, something shifted. The rocks stopped fighting us. Or maybe we stopped fighting them. Either way, there was a harmony between machine and man. In the middle of this mechanical fever dream, we have to give thanks. Mantra Wheels, for keeping our rubber locked in place when the rocks tried to eat us. General Tire, for not letting us die in the sand. Tecnoshocks and their heavy duty design seemed to be tailor made for the unforgiving Colorado Plateau. Thor’s Lightning, whose name we invoked more than once while quickly airing back up during a sandstorm. And Keela McCleneghan at Sunshine Photo; if this trip is remembered, it’ll be through her lens.
We didn’t leave Moab. Not really. Part of us is still out there, scratched into the rock, buried in the sand, scattered amongst the grooves of the hillside. But we brought something back. Parts that passed the test. Stories that earned their mileage. And the kind of clarity you only find after four days in the desert on 33s.
We’ll have more to share more soon here at Berg Peaks. Photos. Builds. Gear you can trust because we already tried to break it. But for now? We’re just trying to savor the dust on our dashes and figure out how soon we can get back to mighty Moab for the next adventure.
