Yep, I’m Jeep People

by Tom Shafer

January 21, 2019

Okay, so I’m Jeep people, and in particular Jeep Wrangler people. I’m not really sure what that means, but it does distinguish me from those of you who drive automobiles. I’ve been Jeep people since I was a kid (lots of Jeep Matchboxes and Hot Wheels) and even got to drive one long before I was legally permitted to (a lovely mustard-colored 1965 Willys Jeep CJ-5). Unfortunately, once I garnered my driver’s license in 1977, like a lemming I drove a series of cars for over two and a half decades before a fourth or fifth mid-life crisis and a sick wife (was just the flu) conspired to lead me to Jeepland.

Oh, and in case you are curious, these were/are my cars: 1959 Chevy Biscayne (called “the Tank”), 1971 Chevy Impala (called “the Blue Beast”), 1973 Chevy Caprice Estate Woody (called, you guessed it, “Woody”), 1975 Chevy Caprice Classic (no nickname, but I loved this car!), 1985 Chevy Citation X11 (I have no logical explanation for this purchase, none whatsoever), 1991 Toyota Camry (my grown-up car), 2012 Subaru Forester (the wife’s car).

Today, I own a 2015 Jeep Wrangler Sport (a ragtop), and before that a 2002 Jeep Wrangler X (also a ragtop). Though I don’t do a whole lot in the way of off-roading (I do some), I have to admit that it’s nice to know that I can if I want to. And I’m not necessarily a prepper (though I do call my Jeep a bugout vehicle), but if a zombie apocalypse occurs (in the form of some uncontrolled contagion) or we are threatened by a rogue nuclear country, it’s nice to know that roads will not limit where I can go. And though snowfalls are never very heavy in Ohio, I am comforted by the thought that my little Jeep will be able to handle them easily.

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But there really is no practical reason for owning a Wrangler. They are definitely not environmentally friendly (mine averages about 19 mpg) and the ride is one that takes a little getting used to (though my ‘15 is considerably more comfortable than my ’02). And you have to be a Tetris savant if you are packing one for a long distance or long duration trip (thank you, I am one!). Oh, and unless you are Katelyn Ohashi (you know, the UCLA gymnast who recently scored a perfect ten with one of the greatest floor routines you’ll ever see), you simply can’t get into the backseat without the assistance of two people, a pry bar, 3-in-1 oil, and some gauze pads.

However, none of that stopped me. I like the high profile for seeing over those of you driving automobiles. I love that I can throw back the ragtop lid for a little fresh air in early spring or late fall, then take the top off completely for a naked ride during the summer. I appreciate the camaraderie with other Wrangler owners – and our secret Jeep Wave. And of course, who doesn’t enjoy taking a vehicle over terrain that few others can navigate. Oh, do the pro’s overwhelm the con’s – at least in my eyes.

And though I always had affection for Wranglers, it was one incident in particular that sold me on them – and it was not a very positive one. As most of you are probably already aware, I have been taking my nieces and nephews on big tours of our western national parks for years, and my first set (a niece and nephew) actually went coast to coast, from Richmond, Virginia, to Portland, Oregon. On our way out, we visited so many of our iconic parks and monuments: Pipestone NM, Badlands NP, Mt. Rushmore NM, Wind Cave NP, Devils Tower NM, Yellowstone NP, Grand Teton NP, and John Day Fossil Beds NM. On our way home, their father joined us (after the entire family spent a week at Sunriver Resort in Oregon), and one of our stops was Canyonlands National Park in Utah.

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This is a gorgeous park, but to get into the backcountry to see some of the more significant offerings, you either backpack for several days or you four wheel. We were on a tour and didn’t have time for a lengthy stay – oh, and I didn’t even mention the 100° temperatures. But I wanted to take a day to explore some ancient Native American sites, so I rented a Jeep Wrangler in Moab (75 miles from the Needles District Visitor Center in Canyonlands) for us to get back to them. Now, we were fortunate (?) on this particular day because most of the four-wheel trails had been closed for over a week due to high water left over from flash flooding. After the fact, I wondered how they had determined a trail’s readiness (is that enough foreshadowing?). Nevertheless, I received a few rudimentary instructions and a map, and off we went.

Now, I’ll be the first to offer that at the time, I was a less-than-skilled four-wheeler. In fact, I was a no-skilled four-wheeler. But I oriented myself to the five-on-the-floor stick and the feel of the four-wheel drive, and you guessed it, I was quickly becoming an expert. The beginning of our selected trail was mostly sand and gravel, and was perfect for me to practice maneuvering. I came across some low stone outcroppings, geared down perfectly from 4H to 4L, and crawled over them like a pro.

We were now seven or eight miles into our trip, and were having a blast! We stopped to view some ancient Native American petroglyphs and take a few photographs – and apply some suntan lotion because the desert was heating up and we were completely exposed in our naked Jeep. Unfortunately, we could find only one small vial in my backpack, so I gave it to the kids, and my brother-in-law and I were left to do our best at avoiding “ole sol.”

Not long after that, we came to our first water, perhaps twenty-five yards of it. Many of the “trails” through Canyonlands are merely dried-up creek beds – which now explained the flash flooding discussion at the VC. This water wasn’t deep (no more than a foot), so I simply slipped the transmission into 4L and drove very slowly through it. I don’t know that anyone else was nervous about it – except me – but I do know that everyone let out a small cheer when we got to the other side.

For the next mile or so, this became the norm. We would come to a pile of water, drive through it slowly, and continue on our way. At one point, the water appeared deeper than any we had experienced, so I suggested that we find some kind of stick or branch and probe the water as we drove through it. Now, when I said that we had a naked Jeep, I meant naked. We had no doors and no windshield to go with no top. So we decided to send my nephew out onto the hood (long stick in hand) to probe the depths of deeper-looking waters. And it worked. This smallish stretch of water was about two+ feet deep – plenty of clearance – so on we went. Clearly, we had gotten the hang of this four-wheeling stuff!

At about the twelve-mile mark of our journey, we turned a corner and came to the top of a small rise. What we saw in front of us was a quarter mile stretch of water approximately fifty yards wide! This was the trail and there was no way around it. So, we planted my nephew on the hood (again with stick in hand), and very, very slowly worked our way through it. I’m not sure how long it took for us to traverse this section of the creek bed, but it seemed like forever. Fortunately, the water was consistently marking around two to three feet, and we made it to the other side without incident.

Right after this, we came across a large cottonwood tree along the trail, so we stopped to drink some water and eat a snack. Here, my brother-in-law and I talked about how long the trip was taking and the fact that we had not expected to come across so much water – if any water at all. Tagged to that was the lack of sunscreen and some threatening clouds on the horizon. The kids, of course, wanted to keep going, so we decided that we would proceed a little further, to the big wall of petroglyphs at about fifteen miles, then return to Moab.

In less than five minutes of being back at it, we came to another long quarter mile stretch of water in the creek bed, so my nephew was back out on the hood probing the water as we sailed (slowly) along. Some holes in this section were deeper than we had experienced, sometimes marking at three+ feet. I was becoming downright nervous, but there was no going back now – especially not in reverse. So I forged ahead – and the water got no deeper. As we approached the end of this stretch, I saw that the trail up and out of the creek bed was steep, and significantly so. To get up the rise, I knew that I was going to have to gun it once I cleared the water. So, about twenty feet from the shoreline, my nephew returned to his front seat position, and I made sure that everyone was belted in.

You know, in life there are moments that hang on a hinge, and that hinge can swing either of two ways: one, in which “you make it” and never know how close to the edge you came, and the other, well, not so much. This was one of those moments. If, like Cher, I could turn back time, I might do so right here. But frankly, as I think about it, maybe I wouldn’t after all. No one gets hurt (save my pride), and I get to tell this expensive story (enough foreshadowing?). Anyway, back to Canyonlands . . .

What happened in the next few seconds might take me another twenty minutes and about five thousand words, so I’ll save you the extensive detail. What I didn’t tell you was that where the trail came out of the water, the creek bed took a very hard right, almost ninety degrees. And remember, my nephew is back in the front seat – and not out on the hood probing the depth of the water. So, as I approached our exit and started to gun the engine to climb the steep rise, the front end of the Jeep did a nose-dive, plunging about five feet directly into the submerged bank. Of course, the engine cut out immediately – and I really can’t say dramatically that we were taking on water. We were just sitting in water – belted in our seats. If any audience had witnessed this event, they would have burst out in laughter, perhaps even shed a few tears. Obviously, no one was going to drown and the Jeep was certainly in no danger of floating downstream. It was stuck at a forty-five degree angle, the front end submerged, the back end pointing awkwardly at the sky.

After briefly assessing the situation, we grabbed all of the equipment and items we had brought with us, climbed into the water, and made our way to the gravel shoreline. Fortunately, another nice cottonwood tree was just up the bank, so we made our way there and spread out the wet stuff that needed drying. After apologizing profusely for what had happened, I knew that there was only one thing to do: I had to walk back the way we had come to get help at the nearby visitor center. The VC was about a mile from the entrance to this trail, so I figured my hike there was at least fourteen miles. I grabbed a water bottle and my daypack, said my goodbyes, and started back up the trail.

I’m sure by now the temperature was approaching 100°, and the sky, which had been threatening, was now perfectly clear, which meant that the sun was beating down with full intensity in the high desert environment (almost 6000 feet elevation). It wasn’t long before my skin, which was already a bright pink hue, started to sizzle, and the faint smell of bacon began following me down the trail. Okay, so my skin was not taking on the beautiful smell of bacon, but I knew that I would be extra crispy by the time I completed my journey, so I needed to do something quickly. At the very next waterhole, I plunged my hands into the depths and grabbed a handful of the coarse, thick creek bottom. I applied the first glob to my face and forehead, then started liberally smearing the muddy mixture over the rest of my very exposed body. When I finished, I’m sure I resembled the Swamp Creature – well, except for the bug eyes.

Because it was now pushing two o’clock in the afternoon, I felt a sense of urgency and started run-walking up the trail. As I trundled along, I kept replaying my last moment of insanity with the Jeep. Having spent much time in creeks from early childhood to middle-late adulthood, I certainly understood their dynamics. I knew that at a cut bank – where a creek or stream makes a hard turn – gravel, sand, and earth are scored out, and all of that debris is pushed downstream. What is left in fishing parlance is a “hole,” a deeper area of water, and sometimes significantly deeper – all stuff I knew. I think I even used the word when I mentioned that I would have to “push hard up that cut bank.” Anyway, there was nothing I could do about it now – except dig us out of this situation, the sooner the better.

In spite of the heat and lack of water (just the single water bottle), I was making very good time. Fortunately, this was a relatively flat trail with a few rolling hills but no real elevation change. And, I was in very good shape for my age (right at 40), so I knew that wouldn’t be an issue. In fact, at about the half-way point, the weather changed and a few clouds moved in. I got a nice respite from the sun and even benefitted from a light rainfall. Of course, I now worried that a light rainfall here might translate to a heavy shower or thunderstorm elsewhere, and a flash flood might take out the Jeep completely or even threaten my family. I started jogging harder now.

Two miles from the road, I was startled by the patter of footfalls behind me. Turning quickly, I spied a dog about twenty yards back. I continued running, slowly, while also looking for a large stick for protection. Just ahead, I saw some branches lying next to the trail, so I grabbed the biggest of the sticks and came to a full stop. When I turned around, I realized that my “dog” was in fact a coyote, and he (or she) slowed, but kept walking toward me. In the moments prior, I had feared a “wild” dog, but having had much experience with coyotes, I had no fear of this one. He walked just a little closer, then lay down about five feet away from me. In my pocket I had half of a granola bar left over from earlier on the trail, so I gently set it down at my feet then turned to continue my task. As I broke into a jog, I glanced back as the coyote sniffed then gobbled the bar. Just seconds after that, he broke into his own light jog and continued to follow me up the trail. My curious coyote followed me for several minutes, never getting closer than ten feet, but at some point he dropped off the trail and I was alone again.

I finally made it to the road and could see the visitor center on a hill about a mile away. I was exhausted, sunburned, and dehydrated, but felt encouraged that our travail was reaching some sort of completion. About a quarter mile from the VC, a truck pulled up beside me, and a voice asked if I needed assistance. He was a park ranger on patrol – and a sight for sore eyes. I briefly described the situation as I hopped in his vehicle, and he took me on up to visitor center.

When I stepped inside the incredibly cold building (at least to me it was), another ranger behind the desk looked at me with alarm. I provided the same explanation I had given her partner, then asked the obvious: how do I get my niece, nephew, and brother-in-law out, along with the submerged Jeep. She explained that a tow truck in Moab could remove the Jeep, but it might be two or three hours before he could get down to Canyonlands.

I calculated that with trail time added, it might be four or more hours before we got back to my family. That would be after sunset. I looked at the ranger who had brought me to the VC (and his pickup outside) , and asked if he could escort me back down the trail to bring my family out. Somewhat apologetically, he explained that he was the only officer on patrol in the whole park so he couldn’t help me. I was incredulous. I quickly asked if I could use the phone and made a call to the tow truck operator in Moab. He said he could leave immediately, but that it might take an hour and a half to get there.

I hung up the phone and walked back to the restroom to refill my water bottle. Angry, I looked in the mirror and realized why the woman had looked so alarmed when I walked in; I was still covered in a light gray layer of adobe from head to toe! I looked a little like Clark Griswold walking through the desert in search of a gas station. I laughed briefly, but then remembered what I needed to do. I walked briskly out of the VC, ignoring the loud “Sir? Sir?” coming from the female ranger, and headed back down the road toward the trailhead. If the park service wasn’t going to help me, then I would have to help myself.

I had just gotten back to the trailhead when I heard a vehicle pull up behind me. It was the patrol officer. He got out of his truck and quickly apologized, explaining that he hadn’t heard that kids were involved (though I clearly told him about my niece and nephew), and that he now considered this an emergency. Okay, so he was a little slow in coming around – and perhaps got some “inspiration” from the other ranger. A few seconds later, I was inside his truck and we were heading down the trail.

I now felt better about the whole situation. The tow truck was on its way and a ranger was taking me back to my family – in his four-wheel drive Ford F150 with lift kit. As we got back to the first stretches of water, he handled them easily, but was surprised to see so much of it on the trail. Of course, I retorted that he hadn’t seen anything yet. When we got to that first long section of water, he stopped at its edge, idling, and just looked at me. “You drove through this?” I explained how we had done it, and he was still staring me down. “How much experience do you have four wheeling?” I told him that this was my first time. I also told him that because the trail was open I figured it must be safe; certainly, the park service wouldn’t open a trail that wasn’t safe. As he slowly moved through the water, he muttered that this trail should never have been opened.

As we approached the creek bed that was holding fast to my Jeep rental, the ranger came to a full stop. We could see the partially submerged vehicle at the far end – and then my niece, nephew, and brother-in-law who were walking toward us on the opposite bank. Again, I could feel the ranger’s eyes boring in on me. “I can’t believe you drove through this!” I quickly countered, “Well, as you can see, I didn’t make it.” My family waded through a shallow section of the water and joined us by the truck. Everyone was fine, a little tired and sunburned, but no worse for wear. All of us got inside and we started our return to the visitor center.

Just as we were exiting the trail, a semi-trailer truck was coming down the hill about half a mile away. The ranger looked at me and said, “There’s your man.” As it got closer, I realized that it was indeed a tow truck, the biggest one I had ever seen. The ranger pulled over to the side to let me out, and I flagged it down while the rest returned to the VC.

We exchanged pleasantries and Bear (yes, that was his name!) helped me get into the passenger seat (it was about ten feet up!) before we started down the trail. He had explained during our brief phone call that his charge was a flat $800 (!) unless there were significant mitigating circumstances (which he didn’t expound upon). Now, he was expounding on them – though frankly I don’t think I heard any specifics. I was already calculating the added costs and wondering if my MasterCard had enough room on it to accept these astronomical charges. I didn’t even want to think about potential damage to the Jeep’s front end or engine.

As we drove along, I needed some old-fashioned small talk (to distract me from my growing financial sorrow), so I asked Bear about his very impressive truck. He told me that he had over $100,000 in it, and he added that he tricked it out specifically to retrieve vehicles from Canyonlands and the Slick Rock Trail outside of Moab. He even described (rather thoroughly) his most successful day ever, when a flash flood in Canyonlands took out nearly 30 four-wheelers (mostly Wranglers). He removed eighteen of them himself at more than $1000 per vehicle!

After navigating the early water holes easily, we approached the first stretch of big water. As Bear carefully slipped his truck into the water, he looked at me with a big smile on his face and asked, “You drove through this?” Okay, so now I was feeling slightly annoyed – and embarrassed, then he added, “That’s pretty ballsy!” After having already heard a number of his stories, I considered this a compliment. Of course, his truck navigated this section easily.

We finally got to the last big pool where my Jeep rental was resting. Bear perused the water until he saw my Jeep in its awkward position at the far end, and then he started laughing. “Sorry,” he snorted, “but that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen!” I couldn’t disagree, though I had to admit to myself that this might be just number eight on MY list.

Again, he drove through this stretch easily, turned his truck around, applied a large hook from his winch to my Jeep’s back end, and rather abruptly pulled it over to the gravelly shoreline. Aside from a blown left tire and lots of ground-in mud, the front of the Jeep appeared to be okay. And fortunately, because the engine sits very high inside the engine compartment of a Wrangler, the electronics were not completely soaked. Therefore, while I changed the tire, Bear retrieved a pneumatic heat gun and started drying out the engine. In about twenty minutes (and with the spare tire installed), he asked me to jump into the driver’s seat and turn the key. The engine gurgled and spit, but as Bear injected starting fluid into the carburetor, it finally sputtered to life. We let it idle for a few minutes, and as we waited, we finalized the transaction (it was just the $800 thankfully) for our little engagement, then he told me to follow him back up the trail. I navigated the two long stretches of water (again) without incident, and just a little after dark finally made it back to the visitor center. As I shook Bear’s hand and thanked him, I realized that he was making $800 for moving me twenty feet and helping to dry out the engine – oh, and some gas money and time – but I was glad he was there to help us out.

After a rather chilling drive back to Moab (due to a naked and very wet Jeep), I dropped my niece, nephew, and brother-in-law at a local restaurant while I sought out a twenty-four hour car wash to clean out a very muddy vehicle. Once I pulled a dozen drain plugs from the bottom of the Jeep, I was able to push the debris out pretty quickly. I used the car wash vacuum to dry out the interior as best I could, then drove back to the restaurant to retrieve my family. They were impressed with the work I had done, but the only people who really mattered were the folks at the rental company.

After breakfast the next morning, we returned the Jeep to its home base. Bear had explained that he would call the rental company in the morning to report the incident (I suppose some deceitfulness had occurred over the years), so they knew I was bringing back a damaged vehicle. As the two managers looked the Wrangler over, I had to admit that it really did look pretty good – except for a slightly damaged bumper (it was pushed in a little) and the blown tire. One manager asked if we had enjoyed ourselves – and of course we said we had, at least until the incident. I then explained what had happened, including Bear’s help and my cleanup. She seemed impressed that I had gone to all the trouble of making the Jeep look so pristine, and I simply replied that it was my fault and my mess. Why would I leave it for somebody else to clean up? Mercifully, she charged me for the tire only ($100) and thanked me for my honesty. Happily, we hopped in my Camry and headed up to Arches National Park for the day.

But I was hooked. I knew then that my next vehicle was going to be a 4×4 of some sort, and most likely a Jeep Wrangler. Eighteen months later, while my wife was suffering the flu, I went out to a local Jeep dealership just “to test-drive a couple of them.” Fortunately (for me) or unfortunately (for her), I brought one home. She was not happy at all (and certainly too ill to do anything about it) – and why should she be? I had traded in our grown-up vehicle for an impractical, uncomfortable, gas guzzling, two seated (for all intents and purposes) four-by-four. But I think she grew to like it over time, especially on dangerous wintry days when it could safely drive both of us to and from work. It also proved valuable in hauling our kayaks and bikes around, and summers were considerably more fun with the ragtop down.

Now, seventeen years later, I wouldn’t even consider another type of vehicle. In fact, when my buddies are talking about the newest, hottest cars on the road, I can’t tell a Mercedes Whatever from a Lexus Whatsoever – and frankly, I don’t care. I guess I’m just a prejudiced snob because all cars and SUVs look the same to me (and don’t they to you?). I’m Jeep people, and yes, that makes me better than you! That is unless you’re ready to join me!

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