Weather
A vast ring of rocky outcrops, impressive by day, was positively awesome by the light of a full Saharan moon. Despite heat and extraordinary mirages, life abounded-wadis were green and the trees robust. Huge hornets droned in and out of the vehicle, eager to explore. Birds were equally inquisitive. Landscape happens on a grand scale.
The desert ran its full gamut of mood swings: Hot and hostile in the middle of the day; early morning and late afternoon electrifyingly beautiful with low sun angles yielding rich colors; and cross-lighting and side-shadows that punched a dramatic third dimension into the landscape. Nights were of absurdly bright moonlight or diamond-bright stars, the constellation of Orion sliding sideways into the eastern horizon on my left as I wriggled into my sleeping bag and its elevation over the sky giving me a reliable time check.
On the day it stormed strong enough for the sand to pit the windshield lightly, visibility varied from half a mile down to 100 yards. With 80 miles to go to the next waypoint, the thin weaving skein of old tire tracks long since vanished and a gray threatening overcast covering the stony plain, two Touareg on camels (desert nomads, not Volkswagens) materialized out of the dust, battling into the wind. Our exchange of greetings was carried away in the gale, and the camels plodded on unconcerned. Much later, with sunset fast approaching, the log entry at last read, "1,639 hrs. Miles: 30,160, OAT: 29C. God Bless America-particularly her GPS! With 0.35 miles to the waypoint, the huge rock massif loomed out of the murk right on the nose! Bingo! Tea at Tellata!"
The next nearly 200 miles were the most demanding the Merc had ever traversed. A heroically established route through dry washes, rocky hills and over a ferocious rock mountain had been put in place by the French in the '40s and '50s, and been at the mercy of erosion ever since. They must have had bulldozers and scrapers to make it, yet you wondered how on earth they got them there. What were the logistics of keeping the road gangs supplied with food and water over that time and distance? Painstakingly marked with rock cairns, sometimes every 75 yards, this engineering achievement leaves you open-mouthed.
As does the mapping. Done long before satellite imagery or GPS were even dreamed of, the accuracy and detail is staggering. GPS should unquestionably earn a Nobel prize for its inventors, but it is useless without a good map or geo-referenced satellite image to use it on. But ant-like, with these two ancient and modern benchmarks of man's ingenuity as props, the G-Wagen-another modest benchmark-picked its way agonizingly over the unforgiving terrain to the tarmac road that waited all those tortuous miles away to the west.
Rockscapes left no doubt who was boss. Rockcrawling was done at snail's pace in low-range with the rear diff-lock engaged. | 
Lifting an axle by the wheel to put sand mats under it is easier than jacking under the axle. | 
Plant and animal life in the desert is a constant source of wonder. |
The Human Overlay
Careful driving and care of the vehicle was paramount. High-density cargo (fuel, water cans) were stowed mid-wheelbase behind the seats, equipment carefully boxed and lashed-down on padding.
Who or what else was there? The God-given scale and majesty of the landscape makes the heartbreaking influence of the human overlay even more poignant in some parts of the Sahara with its problems, its unemployment, its never-ending political turmoil and attendant loss of life through extremist activity. But the sheer niceness of the people was truly humbling. Military checkpoints were abundant on main roads, yet at each, after the appropriate checks had been made, one or more of the soldiers summoned enough English to say, "Welcome to my country!" In one small town, as a visitor, I went into a shop to buy some biscuits, coffee and a couple of eggs. Not having the right money I offered a high denomination note-worth about $10. The shopkeeper did not have change. He pondered for no more than a second or two and then said, "Well, take it anyway!" Humiliatingly, I wondered how a lone Arabic-speaking North African would be treated in the UK in similar circumstances.
There is sand and, I thought, there is sand! There are probably a hundred types, textures and bearing strengths, but this is business-the best sand on the planet. Crunchy sand is good sand, a kind of mini-aggregate of different-sized particles. Here, near some cliffs, it was crisp and orange and hard, bearing the footprint of the Merc's seemingly indestructible BFGoodrich A-Ts with clarity and precision as the setting sun threw it into relief. I drove to make circular patterns in it and tested the generous torque of the 602 diesel by pointing the G-Wagen up the foot of the escarpment to leave a puzzle for anyone who might pass this way in the future. The moon was rising and I yelled my customary hello. The Merc had done well and we were both, I think, enjoying ourselves. This is what one has a G for.