One With The Jeep
There is something about driving a Jeep Wrangler that makes my face hurt. That first Jeep, a green, soft-top four-banger stick shift, would bump along the road … any road paved or dirt, and suddenly I would feel the burn in my cheeks. Diagnosis: grinning from ear to ear.
The longer I drove that vehicle, the more I felt I'd melded to its spirit, like rider and horse, my movements flowed with each turn and change of gear. The brain checked out and let the muscle memory guide the machine. I was one with the Jeep.
Until we discovered this magical car, we drove sedans. They served us well as long as it never snowed. Moving to Truckee, CA soon convinced us to change our transport. We tested a few Wranglers at our favorite Reno dealer with moderate success. Then the saleswoman told us a Wrangler just came in and was getting its 100-point check before landing on the lot.
When she opened the door to the garage where this green Jeep stood, I swear by all that is holy or un that I heard angels sing. Being the secular person I am, that's quite a statement. A halo gleamed around the car as I remembered how I woke up that morning announcing to my blearly-eyed husband that I wanted to buy a car today. That item was not on his agenda, but he shrugged and said, Okay, whatever you want, my Beloved."
Perhaps I've embellished that a bit.
We took the green Jeep for a test drive with me at the wheel and the saleswoman gripping the grab bars in a state of panic. Trying to calm her, I said, "Hey, this goes pretty good in freeway traffic, doesn't it."
The next few years of Sierra Nevada winters and desert summers gave us the taste of euphoria all Wrangler drivers must share: the permanent silly slash across the face, the bugs-in-the-teeth madness in the eyes, the what's-to-lose spirit that sends us into the wilderness to ford streams, roll down cliffs, and navigate fields of boulders not much smaller than their vehicles.
While I've shamefully proved to mentors' disappointment, I'm not really up to such shenanigans, but I do like to wander in the Pine Nuts behind my Nevada home to find the wild horses. Some of those trails test the grit of both driver and car, but they're not the Rubicon that starts in the Tahoe Basin and terminates in Georgetown, CA. My husband and I are both quite capable of the Pine Nut trails, even ones that are washed out. He proved that one day to the amazement of some youngsters waiting near that tricky washout in their side-by-sides in case the old couple needed help.
About a year after my Era of Joint Replacement ended, I yearned to visit the horses. I'd already strengthened enough to drive the Subaru. When I pushed down that clutch in the Jeep, however, I realized those surgeries had thrown off my timing, making the jaunt down the highway a jerky, dismal affair. I thought my life as a pseudo-adventurer was completely shot to pieces. Little old ladydom was closing around me like a coffin.
I know, it sounds so dramatic, but relegating myself to a chair unattached to four-wheel-drive was a hard epiphany.
Years followed with boxes of knitted hats mailed to the cancer center and kindle books devoured by the day. My man graciously took me on Sunday drives and the grandson sparked a new direction for my energies. I must give him credit for a major change. Picking up his toys built more muscle than pilates or any other exercise program. And I didn't have to endure a drill-sergeant-turned-trainer at the studio.
A few days ago, I couldn't bare the lack of horse watching. Intent on doing errands, I veered in the opposite direction, toward the Pine Nut hills. I'd heard the wild horses had come out of their winter Diaspora way in the back country and were meeting for a Spring Rendezvous in the Big Meadow. This huge open valley where horse advocates maintained water tanks, appears over-grazed for a good reason. This is where they all gather to introduce the debutantes to the bachelors, and show off the new foals. This was too much to bear missing, so I jumped in the Subaru and crept along the rocky, rutted road to the Meadow.
They had already dispersed to the hills again. Only the flash of a tail alerted me to a small band atop a ridge. The Sub quietly climbed the trail toward them. One of them nosed-up from the ground and started to wander away, but then stopped amidst the herd. They sidled around, nibbling the meager spring shoots. The ground had barely cleared of snow a week prior, so there wasn't yet the verdance that covered lower elevations. Still, bright yellow buckwheat covered the earth and the sage was greening up a bit.
Anyway, the Subaru performed well on this trip, but maybe that's why it's in the shop now. Coming home from the store, the dashboard lights flashed. All attempts to diagnose came to naught. This morning, I had to drive the Jeep to tend my grandson an hour away. I'd be jousting with commute traffic through Carson City and Dayton for the past year. My last trip in the Jeep, with its sputters and kills, haunted me. I barely slept that night, thinking of the horror of jerking along toward my grandson's house.
With a few words of prayer and "I've got this" chants as I walked out the door, I strapped myself behind the wheel and turned the key. So far so good. Shifting into reverse, I manipulated the pedals without a hiccup. Hmmmmm. Starting forward over the slight hill of our driveway, the engine flutters just a tad, then pushed ahead as if I knew what I was doing. The gears meshed without a groan and I was on my way.
As I negotiated morning traffic, the lights granted me easy passage; but shifting and downshifting soon revived that rusty unconsciousness in working the machine.
"I'll be darned," I announced to myself and the Universe, "I really do "got this." Once again, I was one with the Jeep.
At least, I did well on pavement, but what about driving off road in the Pine Nuts? “C’mon Sue,” I declared aloud, “let’s test your mettle.”
A day or so later, I wheeled the Jeep into Fish Springs and onto the road leading to the Big Meadow. Again, no horses, but there were roads for miles. Not wanting to get lost, I decided to climb the road up to the picnic table horse advocates installed on the top of a hill where visitors could scan the terrain.
Sitting there at the lonesome watering hole where horses are often photographed in their territorial antics, I realized that I hadn’t faltered when bumping on the dirt road. In fact, I recalled how slowing down and creeping along the rocky, rutted entrance was actually easier that driving on pavement.
Okay, let’s do this. I slipped the gearshift into first and pressed the gas, letting up slowly on the clutch. Nice and steady, the muscle memory kicked in with the same brilliant finesse of yesteryear. The jeep eased into second where it stayed, traversing ruts and beaver-sized rocks until I reached the picnic table. I passed that test. Now to negotiate the steep descent on the other side.
Winter rains had turned this track into a wash with stones the size of a cat that could roll under the wheels. If I veered to one side or the other, I would high-center and gouge the undercarriage. At least! I thought of Jeff’s response to my secret-life day trip in the desert if he spotted oil drizzling along the driveway. He might be amused at first, then peeved at a second mechanic’s bill.
Well, I can’t just sit up here for the rest of my life. And the road I came in on was no better. I just had more control coming up. I would be dead-falling going down. So, I shifted and coaxed the jeep ahead slowly, white knuckles clutching the wheel.
A chorus of crunches and creaks accompanied the rocking dance side-to-side as I tried to keep the speed down enough to prevent lift-off. The jeep slipped and slid, heaved and jolted, but I maintained control. All the way down the hill. And all the way back home. Passed all tests and left no tell-tale dents on the jeep.
Now I could claim with certainty: I am one with the Jeep!
All photos by Sue Cauhape
WE are one with the jeeps. They are our people, part of our tribe.