When you first break in as an unorthodox reporter, your idea of finding stories is usually built on unrealistic dreams. There’s a reason people go to journalism school. You want to be the dreamer, the one who breaks the big story and makes a mark right away at the paper that took a chance on you.
After a few months working a couple of cubicles away from the newsroom, I decided it was time to move over to reporting. I’d always wanted to write, so it felt like the obvious next step. I begged the editor until he finally gave in. He handed me a challenge: pitch a story in 24 hours. I had no idea where to start.
I spent the day glued to my desk, scouring the internet for a lead bold enough to impress him. Nothing clicked. The longer I searched, the more I convinced myself I was in over my head. Maybe this was his way of proving I wasn’t ready to just jump in and file a publishable article.
When the newsroom emptied, I stayed behind, staring up at the skylight, dreading the thought of returning with nothing. My worst fear was that this one chance would slip through my fingers.
The only other person left was the ad programmer. He was an Army vet with a habit of dropping wild takes about politics, Trump, or guns. He got up, circled the room, then stopped and asked what I was still doing there.
I told him my issue, but he didn’t seem too worried. He assured me I’d figure it out, but before he walked away, he said, “You know, I might have something for you.” I sat up with some hope. “What do you have?”
He told me about an area out on BLM land near the Utah-Arizona border. According to him, heavy patrols were happening there to catch migrant caravans avoiding I-15 to escape deportation. I found it hard to believe. If caravans were really moving through those desert backroads, surely we’d already know about it. I pressed him for sources. He claimed a friend in DHS had been talking about repeated problems along that pathway and how local authorities were ramping up their presence.
He had an answer for everything. The more I questioned him, the more the story seemed worth the risk. If it were true, this could be the unreported issue I needed: hundreds of migrants slipping through the Arizona-Utah desert. It sounded like a hoax, but if it wasn’t, I wanted to be the one who wrote about it.
He gave me directions to the spot, where he said I’d find signs of movement — discarded trash, even posted warnings. He described caravans moving in convoys of trailers, sometimes breaking off onto smaller roads that wound through camping areas or shooting ranges.
I didn’t want to waste another second. I packed up my camera, recorder, and notepad, then drove straight to the desert.
Three hours in the summer sun. 105 degrees with no humidity. Dust clogged the air filter until the AC gave out. I rolled the windows down, took off my shirt, and wrapped it around my head and face, leaving only my sunglasses exposed.
When the car finally began to overheat, I pulled over, furious. I was stranded deep in the desert with only a couple hours of sunlight left. I paced the shoulder until the engine cooled, my shoulders burning under the red sky.
I wanted to give up. I felt stupid for believing my coworker. I had no energy left.
After half an hour of cursing into the sand, I admitted defeat and turned back. The sky shifted from blue to purple as I drove, still without AC, still without a story.
Then, an hour into the drive, I saw it. Dust clouds rising from a road in the distance.
It couldn’t be.
The plumes rolled upward like smoke, thick enough to come from more than one vehicle. Maybe a caravan.
I slammed the gas and raced to intercept, grabbing my gear from the backseat. This was it.
Fifteen minutes later, the dust trail vanished. But fresh tire tracks cut into the dirt, leading me forward.
The road ended at a hill, with a smaller trail curling into a cove. I eased onto it, careful not to spook whoever might be ahead.
When I rounded the bend, I froze.
Not a single trailer. Instead, two Humvees and three 4x4 trucks lined up.
Off to the side stood about fifteen men in camo, plate carriers strapped to their chests, AR-15s slung across their shoulders.
I tried to reverse before they noticed me, but their heads snapped up and they glared back before I could slip away.
I paused and stared back. Do I gun it out of here? Or play the part — reporter, not trespasser? Either way, I still needed a story.
I parked, grabbed my bag and press pass, and shoved my .40 into my waistband — thinking some protection was better than none.
I shut the door and started toward the group. Their rifles were down, but their eyes never left me.
I thought the best way to break the tension was to wave and flamboyantly yell, “Hi!”
They looked at each other, confused, but I noticed their guards drop just a little.
I told them who I was and what I was doing out there. One of the men, wearing a backwards black beret, stepped forward and asked, “Migrants! Where?”
“I’m not sure. I was told there was a caravan somewhere around here. I’ve been driving all around looking for them,” I said.
None of them knew what I was talking about. One of the others told me if there was a caravan in the area, they’d know.
So I asked who they were. They explained they were training to privately deploy to Ukraine. All ex-military, still itching for action.
I asked if I could take photos or do interviews. They shook their heads. They didn’t trust the media, and they didn’t trust me.
I tried convincing them I wasn’t out to get them, but they weren’t buying it. Finally, I backed down, thanked them for not shooting me on sight, and started back toward my car.
That’s when I felt it — the pistol sliding down my waistband. With each step it worked lower, from my hip to my thigh. I had maybe thirty steps to go, but there was no way I’d make it without it falling out.
By the time it reached my inner thigh, I grabbed it and pretended I’d pulled a groin muscle, dragging my leg through the dirt. I thought I sold it. Then I heard:
“You okay?”
I looked back. The man with the black beret was watching, rifle slung on his shoulder.
“Yeah, just a cramp,” I said.
He didn’t look convinced, but he turned and walked off.
I made it to my car, opened the door, and swung my leg up, launching the pistol out of my pant leg and into the passenger seat with a loud bang.
Heads snapped in my direction.
I waved and shouted, “Sorry!”
They kept staring. I turned the key, but a few of them started walking toward me.
I didn’t care anymore. I threw the car in reverse and floored it. My windows were still down, and the stereo blasted to life — Castles Made of Sand by Jimi Hendrix screaming into the desert.
“Shit!” I slapped the power button and focused on getting out.
I was sure they laughed about the absurdity once I was gone. But I drove like I had a police helicopter overhead, kicking up clouds of dust until I hit pavement again.
An hour of reckless, trophy-truck driving later, I pulled back into the office, still dust-caked and sunburnt, and dropped into my chair. I didn’t have a story. Just the sinking feeling I was doing everything wrong.
I looked over and saw my coworker still at his desk.
I walked up, anger boiling over from the heat, the danger, and the wild goose chase he’d sent me on.
He glanced up at me, took in my scorched skin and filthy clothes, and asked:
“So, did you find them?”
