Six weeksis enough time to learn someone's coffee order. It is enough time to meet their friends, maybe a roommate, and potentially their dog.

It is not, under reasonable circumstances, enough time to know someone well enough to drive 14 hours across three states, wake up before dawn, and execute a nude photo shoot in a national park.

Yet, in 2018, that is what I proposed to my girlfriend of six weeks.

"When do we leave?" she responded.

Long road trips with new partners can typically go wrong in three ways:

• Flat tire
• Uncontrollable flatulence
• New partner tees up an 8 hour Dave Ramsey audio book

Fortunately, we did not encounter any of these issues.

The plan was to drive the 14 hours from LA to New Mexico, stay in a motel, wake up at 4am to be at the park by 4:45am, shoot all morning, break for lunch, shoot all afternoon, then drive halfway back home, rest for the night and finish the drive the following day.

Our motel was in a small city in New Mexico called Alamogordo, which must be an old Indian word roughly translated to "there's one restaurant in town and it's an Applebee's so good luck with your Italian girlfriend." More on that later.

The shoot day starts comically early. We meet a park ranger at the front gate at 4:45am on the dot. He greets us, unlocks the gate, and sends us on our way. I'd like to say that was the last time we saw him, but how much fun would that be?

At this point the clock is ticking. I want every second of that soft pre-sunrise light, light I'd been chasing, in some form, since a Herb Ritts exhibit at The Getty six years earlier. We roll into the parking lot, internal to-do lists firing.

Hers involves a pocket mirror, maybe some concealer, and a genetically unfair ability to look stunning at 4:52am.

Mine involves a concentrated dose of terror as I flip through rental cameras, lenses, and tiny SD cards. I am the Michael Jordan of forgetting things on a shoot, and this time I am 10 hours away from the quantum physicists at Samy's Camera in LA.

But as the car doors close, my angst evaporates. Any sign of her nerves seems invisible by nature. That is half of modeling, after all.

The park is stunning. We are alone, with our choice of dunes and direction. It is pure visual nirvana.

My caveman plan is to simply hike into the dunes until we see something that looks good. Ninety feet into the hike, things look good.

I find the frames and she finds the poses. Click, click, click, review, rejoice, reload. We are off and running. The sun hasn't even crested the horizon, and I'm shooting on two digital cameras, a film camera, and an iPhone. I can't get enough.

The rising sun starts to hit sand and skin, and it's like we've moved to a new film set. New light, new angles, new possibilities. This goes on for what feels like days.

By 11am, we are completely fried. High noon in the desert in August is an easy avoid, so we retreat to the car and pack up.

Epic morning session in the books. Now to rest, recharge, and kick down the door at the local Applebee's.

We arrive at the restaurant, and I can tell she has no idea what this place is. She grew up in Zurich and Milan. I grew up in an Amoco parking lot where I could, without moving, see an Applebee's, Chili's, McDonald's, and a Sonic. This is my home court.

Smash cut to two massive burgers landing on our table. She's aghast at the size of the absolute heifer that just appeared from the kitchen. I eat one and a half hamburgers for lunch, and then we're back on the road.

The sunset session was house money. We'd captured so much in the morning, so this round would be relaxed and exploratory. We hike two miles into the desert with no destination, only curiosity pulling us deeper.

And then I see the perfect dune. A west-facing wall of sand, bright white, catches the afternoon light, its ridgeline running diagonally across my frame. The backside is shaded, giving contrast and drama to the scene.

I frame it up, unsure what to do with it. I love what I see, but there's about 12 ounces of Applebee's reddest meat pounding through my veins. My creative spirit is engaged in a battle for survival.

Perhaps aware of my creative decline, Caroline (my now wife) walks into the frame. I've given no instructions, consumed instead with f-stop, shutter speed, ISO. I sort out my indecision and peer back into the camera.

She manages to gracefully lie on the lip of the dune, slowly sliding down the west-facing slope. I am floored at what I see and lay down the hammer.

Whap-whap-whap-whap-whap. The shutter obeys. I review frames on the back of the camera. I'm giddy, Applebee's be damned.

We got the fucking shot.

"Holy shit! Holy shit! That's it, we got it!" I yell. She's calm, enjoying the moment far more than I am, with a look that says "I know".

We come together and embrace. It's been a whirlwind 24 hours of travel and little sleep, but the high of victory is palpable. We hike to the top of that perfect dune and crack open two ice-cold Stellas.

That's right: I might be the Michael Jordan of forgetting absolutely necessary components for a job, but I am the LeBron James of remembering beers, ice packs, and a cooler bag on a desert photo shoot.

We watch the sun set atop the dunes with beers in hand. Bliss.

We start our final walk from the white sands back to the parking lot. I comment that it feels like we're on the moon. Twilight here is a life-altering experience, and we let it hold us for 45 more minutes.

The stress is behind us, but a long drive is in front of us. We arrive at the car, legs heavy, hearts full. I pull on the door handle, waiting for the modern marvel of keyless entry to engage.

Nothing.

I pull again. And again. Each pull more frantic than the last. Nothing.

"Do you have the keys?" I ask. "For some reason I thought you had them today."

Caroline reminds me that she was, in fact, naked most of the day, and lacked the necessary storage one would need to carry car keys.

I throw the bags on the ground and frantically unpack. Darkness has set in. The flashlight on my phone illuminates the recessed, sandy corners of our bags. Hope is dwindling.

"I lost the keys. I don't have them," I state, almost catatonic.

It is minutes before 9pm. The park closes at 9pm. We are moments away from being locked in. The playground is about to become a prison.

We remember she has AAA. I try to call, but I have barely a bar of signal. No phones.

Then I see headlights on the frontage road. I sprint towards them. They slow just enough to identify me as a likely non-murderer and roll down the window.

"Can you guys send the park rangers back here if you see them by the gate? We lost our keys and our phones don't work," I offer, completely defeated.

They agree, and now our hope rests with two complete strangers in a RAV4.

Minutes go by like hours. I'm assessing how to keep my girlfriend of six weeks warm enough to become my girlfriend of seven weeks. There's a good chance we'll be here, in the suddenly cold desert, until morning.

Then, headlights. A park ranger SUV pulls up.

"Lost some keys, I hear?" one says.

"Yes, sir. Had them this morning, but now I can't find them anywhere. And clearly they're not close enough to unlock the doors," I stammer.

Tow trucks are hours away. Locksmiths too. The nearest Audi dealership is in Waco, TX, a place I am determined to avoid even if subpoenaed.

"It's a long shot, but I can escort you back out there while you look for the keys," ranger number two says.

"Done. Let's do it." I have no other options.

Ranger one gets the job of comforting the girl in the bikini. Ranger two hands me a flashlight and follows me into the darkness.

I pick up our tracks after a few minutes and feel incredibly primal, senses heightened, probably like the cavemen before me, searching for their car keys. But with each step, I'm losing hope. Not finding them is not an option.

We arrive at the Dune of Beers and I scamper up its lip. The sand is soft here, and I'm sinking as I walk. If the keys had come loose here, we are donezo.

Nothing. No keys. Just footprints from a happier time. We turn back toward the parking lot, where ranger one is likely having the time of his life.

My mind is spinning, furious, terrified, mostly embarrassed. I haven't thought about the photographs once. That euphoria has been stuffed in a bag and thrown off a bridge.

As we approach Caroline and ranger one, I'm preparing a speech. A surrender of sorts. Hundreds of feet until the best day ever turns into the worst night imaginable.

And then, I pause. A scamper of footprints off to the left of the path. And for a split second, something black in the darkest corner of my eye. I cannot emphasize how far "to the left" this was, but for some reason, I whip the light in that direction.

Mother of Alamogordo. Car keys. Lying in the desert. A mere 100 feet from the parking lot!

I scream every curse word imaginable and jump on those keys like Don Beebe in 1993.

Caroline, easily within earshot, starts screaming for joy, sprinting toward me.

"I knew it! I knew it! I knew he would find them!" she yells to the rangers. I will never forget those words. That must be when I knew I was going to marry her.

I had driven her 14 hours across state lines, taken her to an Applebee's, asked her to shoot nude in a national park for six hours, and then lost the car keys.

And yet, after all that, she had the nerve to have confidence in me? Sign me up.

That is the story of an all-time day, turned into a real-time nightmare, saved by a RAV4, a park ranger and pure luck.

Once back in Los Angeles we submitted the photographs to an upstart photo gallery called House Of Spoils. They took on some of the prints and since then we've sold hundreds of prints around the world.

Six weeks was enough time.