This year I was lucky enough to attend the 20th Anniversary King of the Hammers.
For those who don’t know what KoTH is; One week each year the silent expanse of Johnson Valley erupts into something that feels less like a race and more like a mechanical fever dream out of Mad Max. Part desert apocalypse, part renegade carnival. King of the Hammers transforms the dust into “Hammertown,” a fully functioning pop-up city of welders, whiskey, and war rigs that rises from nothing and vanishes just as quickly, like Burning Man but with torque specs and roll cages. What began as a brutal test of man and machine now anchors the broader Ultra4 Racing championship, but the spectacle spills far beyond a single series—multiple classes and sanctioning bodies stake their claim on the rocks, all while the surrounding desert becomes an unsanctioned playground of high-horsepower chaos. By day, the hammers echo with competition; by night, bonfires flicker against the silhouettes of tube-frame monsters, and the line between professional motorsport and wild-eyed recreation blurs into a haze of dust and adrenaline.
King of the Hammers started as a bar napkin dream cooked up by rock-crawler Dave Cole and desert racer Jeff Knoll at a Chili's in San Bernardino. In 2007, they invited twelve unsuspecting guys out to Johnson Valley, told them nothing, and just let chaos happen — no spectators, no vendors, just raw desert brutality across 35 miles of rock-crawling gauntlet with names like Devil's Slide, Hell's Gate, and Wrecking Ball. JR Reynolds won in a blistering 2:57 while some poor souls were still out there five hours later using GPS to pray their way through unmarked trails. After the dust settled, a $100 bet on a forum spiraled into a full-blown phenomenon — the OG13 (actually 12, but a T-shirt printer screwed up and it stuck), Hammerking Productions, sponsors, 35,000 screaming spectators, and a race so savage that in 2013 only 27 of 129 competitors even finished within the 15-hour limit. No chase vehicles, no mercy; you break something, you fix it yourself in the desert or you die trying. As Jeff Knoll put it best: out there, running out of talent might just mean death.
My week at King of the Hammers didn’t begin with the green flag—it started with a long haul south, a trailer-mounted Polaris RZR bouncing behind us and the Californian Mountains wearing a fresh coat of snow in the distance. The miles slipped by in that familiar pre-race haze of anticipation, and by the time we rolled into camp, a cold beer by the fire felt less like a luxury and more like a ritual. Hammertown was already alive—generators thumping, welders sparking, the desert air thick with fuel and dust.
The next morning, we joined a full caravan of UTVs and pointed them toward the rocks. What followed was pure desert theater: near-vertical climbs that felt like they’d tip you onto the spare tire, tight canyon cuts with barely a mirror’s width to spare, and long sandy stretches where the speedo swept past 75 mph without apology. It’s that contrast—precision crawling one minute, flat-out desert running the next—that defines the place.
After dark we drifted toward Chocolate Thunder, where the line between competition and spectacle dissolves entirely. Tube-chassis monsters and wildly modified trucks took turns assaulting the rocks while spectators lined the ledges—coolers cracked open, bonfires snapping, allegedly there were even fireworks. It’s equal parts motorsport and block party, and when the engines finally fall silent, the adrenaline doesn’t.
The following day traded rock for sand as we posted up in the dunes to watch rigs send it skyward, suspension at full droop against a desert backdrop that looks tailor-made for slow-motion replays. If the photos don’t quite capture the scale of it, that’s probably because King of the Hammers isn’t just an event—it’s an atmosphere.
There’s plenty more photos on my Instagram.
While spending some free time hanging out, my “Overhead Manager” nerd tendencies kicked in and I found radio frequencies in use in the area. This might be a useful resource in the future as it taps into comms from the event organizers, search and rescue, and others. If you’ve got a Uniden Bearcat SR30C or similar scanner, you can program these into a single search band easily.
| Frequency | Category | Description | Alpha Tag | License |
|---|---|---|---|---|
| 150.86 | KotH | FAIR | FAIR | WPGK938 |
| 151.49 | KotH | BITD | BITD | WRCL361 |
| 151.505 | KotH | CHECKERS2 | CHECKERS2 | WRAP613 |
| 151.5125 | Ultra4 Racing | Logistics | U4-2 | WRAP613 |
| 151.625 | District 37 | District 37 Channel 1 / KotH WEATHERMAN | Dist37 D1 | WRAP613 |
| 151.685 | KotH | NETWORK | NETWORK | WPGK938 |
| 151.7 | Ultra4 Racing | Race Ops | U4-1 | WRAP613 |
| 151.715 | KotH | BFGRLY | BFGRLY | WPGK938 |
| 151.775 | KotH | LOCOMOCO | LOCOMOCO | WPGK938 |
| 151.925 | KotH / S&R | CHECKERS1 / Rescue3 Channel 5 | WPGK938 | |
| 152.51 | KotH | SANDLIMO | SANDLIMO | |
| 152.96 | KotH | RGDRLY | RGDRLY | WPGK938 |
| 152.975 | KotH | ULTRA2 | ULTRA2 | WPGK938 |
| 153.095 | KotH | ULTRA1 | ULTRA1 | WPGK938 |
| 153.11 | KotH | YOKOHA | YOKOHA | WPGK938 |
| 153.23 | Ultra4 Racing | Production | U4-3 | WRAP613 |
| 153.245 | KotH | CORE | CORE | WPGK938 |
| 153.295 | KotH | BFGPITS | BFGPITS | WQSX713 |
| 153.38 | KotH | MAG7 | MAG7 | WPGK938 |
| 153.4 | Search and Rescue | Channel 4 | Rescue3 Ch4 | |
| 153.83 | Fire-Tac | Countywide Tactical | BDC V15 | KA7008 |
| 154.515 | KotH / S&R | PCIRLY / Rescue3 Channel 3 | PCIRLY | WPGK938 |
| 154.57 | District 37 | Channel 3 | Dist37 D3 | |
| 154.6 | District 37 | Channel 2 | Dist37 D2 | |
| 154.98 | KotH | BAJAPITS | BAJAPITS | |
| 155.16 | KotH | RESCUE | RESCUE | WPYV458 |
| 155.175 | Search and Rescue | Channel 2 | Rescue3 Ch2 | |
| 155.295 | Search and Rescue | Channel 1 | Rescue3 Ch1 | |
| 156.075 | Air to Ground medical helicopter | California On-Scene Emergency Coordination System (simplex on-scene multi-agency interop) | CALCORD | KB82490 |
| 156.675 | KotH | PRIVATE | PRIVATE | |
| 157.45 | KotH | KOH | KOH | |
| 158.4 | Ultra4 Racing | Fire/EMS Tac | FTAC-2 | WRAP613 |
| 158.4075 | Ultra4 Racing | Fire/EMS Tac | U4-MED | WRAP613 |
| 166.375 | BLM | Admin Net / Fire Temporary | BLM CDD Admin | KMC457 |
| 166.4875 | BLM | Fire Net / Overhead Ops | BLM CDD Fire | |
| 166.75 | BLM | Law Net | BLM CDD Law | |
| 168.35 | BLM | Monitor Tac 1 | BLM CDD Mon T1 | |
| 168.6 | BLM | Monitor Tac 2 | BLM CDD Mon T2 | |
| 168.7 | BLM | King of the Hammers Fire/EMS | KOH Fire | |
| 169.7125 | BLM | Imperial Sand Dunes - Rangers | ISD Ch 7 Ranger |
Speaking of the future, this incredible event may be in jeopardy. A federal judge’s decision to shut down 2,200 miles of Mojave Desert off-road trails (as reported by BlueRibbon Coalition) has understandably rattled the desert racing crowd, but don’t start writing King of the Hammers’ obituary just yet. King of the Hammers operates under formal permits and environmental review in the Johnson Valley OHV area, which gives it far more legal armor than loosely designated trail networks now caught in the crosshairs. The ruling is less a kill shot to marquee events and more a warning flare to land managers: tighten up environmental compliance or expect more court-ordered closures. In the short term, the race is likely safe; in the long term, expect more scrutiny, tighter boundaries, and higher costs. The era of “ride first, paperwork later” is clearly over — but Johnson Valley isn’t going dark tomorrow.
Two decades in, King of the Hammers still feels like a dare — thrown down in the dust and answered with throttle. It is at once a professional championship round, a proving ground for the best fabricators in the game, and a weeklong reminder that the American desert still has the power to humble anyone who underestimates it. Long after the last rig clears the rocks and the final campfire burns down to embers, Hammertown will fold itself back into the silence of Johnson Valley as if it were never there at all.
But anyone who’s made the pilgrimage knows better.















.gif)




















