Overland Tech and Travel
Advice from the world's
most experienced overlanders
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The "ultimate" tent stake?
Anyone who has used a tent of any size in the field has experienced the comically inadequate nature of the stakes supplied with most of them. Tent manufacturers are driven to, a) publish the lightest possible packed weight of their product, and, b) save as much as possible on the ancillaries supplied with it. As a result, the stakes you get with a tent vary from spaghetti-like round aluminum pegs the diameter of a medium-sized nail (which I have as a demonstration bent in my teeth), to, if you’re lucky with a high-quality tent such as the excellent models from Hilleberg or Terra Nova, a heat-treated, V or T-shaped DAC stake—but still no more than six inches long. The latter work acceptably in perfect grass turf, the former work acceptably nowhere. If you expect to be able to safely anchor your tent in a range of conditions and substrates, you need aftermarket stakes.
The Ultimate stake on top, with a high-quality but too-small factory stake below
Thirty years ago, Black Diamond Equipment produced something they called the Chouinard T-Stake. It was made in two sizes, eight or nine and a half inches, from 2024 T3 heat-treated aluminum. We bought a dozen or so. If I’d known then what I know now, I’d have taken out a loan and bought a hundred. T-Stakes proved virtually indestructible, and the holding power was superb. My old Marmot Taku survived numerous howling Chubascos on Sea of Cortez islands anchored with just one upwind T-Stake; our North Face VE25 sat unperturbed through an arctic storm on the Beaufort Sea coast that the VHF radio said was gusting past 60 mph.
Sadly, tent stakes have a way of evaporating. It’s so easy to miss one after taking down a tent that used eight or ten or more with various guylines. Over the years our original supply of T-Stakes has dwindled to the point where we only have six or seven, jealously hoarded and thus rarely used, which defeats the purpose. Recently I missed an auction on eBay for nine of them, in good condition, with a buy-it-now price of a hundred bucks. I’m glad I missed it, because I would have been tempted.
You’ve gathered that I’ve yet to find a fully comparable stake, and you’re right. I’ve never encountered the combination of reasonable weight and size with that much strength. But I might just have come close. In doing some research for another publication, I literally stumbled upon something called the “Ultimate” stake, at, of all places, Campmor.
Ultimate stake on top, a well-used Chouinard T-Stake below
Made from 6061 T6 aluminum, and available in a stout nine-inch length and an even stouter twelve-inch, the Ultimate stake certainly looks the part. A central U-shaped body is backed up by a substantial gusset—no bending this one with my teeth. At the top are both a hook and a hole for tent loops or guylines (the hook also helps when pulling the stake out). Campmor says they’re made in the U.S., but I found not a trace of branding on the four nine-inch versions I ordered to try. I don’t know if Campmor has them made or is simply retailing them. That’s weird.
The machining on the Ultimate stakes is definitely a step down from the superior anodized finish on the T-Stakes—although, at $3.49 each for the nine-inch size, they’re only a dollar more than the larger T-Stake cost 30 years ago. I plan to take a Dremel to the hook and hole to round off the sharp edges and reduce chafe on guylines and stake-out tabs. Presumably the Ultimate stake is designed to be inserted with the U-shaped edge toward the tent. This gives the stake less cross-sectional area than the large T-Stake and about the same as the small one (although I suppose the U shape might enhance resistance over a flat stake). I wonder if in soft soil using it sideways might be more effective, given the broad gusset.
I tested the resilience of the Ultimate stake by hammering one repeatedly into compacted Arizona Sonoran Desert soil—used for centuries by residents to make bricks, literally. It held up just fine, the most obvious signs of use being a slight peening on top. My experiences with other stakes, especially the T-Stake, leads me to believe this sort of stabilizes over time, whether from work hardening, simple expansion of the contact area and resultant dispersal of impact force, or some combination of the two.
Great—time for test-to-destruction. I chose a patch of asphalt in town and started hammering the Ultimate stake into it—or rather, at it, because penetration was minimal. However, the “weak point” of the stake revealed itself: the point right at the hook, where the gusset narrows. The neck began to bend backwards at that point. A demonstration beyond reasonable expectations, but it did point out where one of these would fail if you seriously abused it.
"Weak point"revealed: note bend at neck
So is the Ultimate stake the ultimate stake? Given the astonishing condition of my 30-year-old Chouinard T-Stakes, none of which shows the slightest sign of bending, I’d have to say no. However, it’s a damned good stake. Available here.
Lynx tie-down straps
Update on January 13, 2015. I just learned that Lynx will have a booth at Overland Expo WEST this May, so you'll be able to see this clever tie-down system in action and pick up a set or two.
I hate cargo nets.
Every one I’ve had the misfortune to use has proven itself unwieldy, snarl-prone, and impossible to adjust to achieve uniform tension across bulky and mismatched baggage. Yet there are many situations in which standard ratchet straps simply will not work. And doing without is not an option—if, God forbid, you find yourself in a road accident or a rollover situation on a trail, it would be embarrassing if your shoulder belts and air bags all worked perfectly to save you, and a flying camera bag or camp stove gave you a concussion, or worse.
The Lynx tie-down straps are the answer to a lot of those situations.
Each Lynx tie-down comprises an adjustable nylon strap, a short length of solid-natural-rubber elastic sheathed in polyester, a quick-release Fastex-like buckle, and a plastic hook on each end. Okay, so what? Here’s the trick to the patented straps: The cunning hooks can be snapped together to create a completely customized web suited to almost any pile of cargo you need to secure. Each one adjusts from 19 to 45 inches in length, but you can also join them end to end to create almost any length you need.
The hooks snap together . . .
I gathered up a motley assortment of Pelican cases, range bags, and camera bags, and had no problems quickly assembling a five-legged spider of Lynx straps to secure the pile to the tie-down loops in the back of my FJ40 (of course a prerequisite for the straps to work is a decent array of strong tie-down loops in your cargo area). If I’d been doing the same thing in the back of a long-bed pickup, I could have assembled two spiders and joined them with a connecting strap. The configurations are limited only by your imagination.
. . . to lengthen a strap or create a web.
The adjuster buckle on each strap makes one-hand snugging of cargo easy, and the elastic section assures that a rough road or a load that manages to settle won’t allow a hook to come loose. It also make unfastening the system simple without the necessity of loosening the adjuster or unfastening the buckle. Given that elastic component, the Lynx straps can’t be considered replacements for full-on ratchet straps. I wouldn’t secure a line of full jerry cans against a bulkhead with only these, nor would I trust them to immobilize my 60-pound Pelican case full of tools in a collision (the company conservatively rates them at 25 pounds each; a web should handle a corresponding multiple of the individual rating). But the straps seem perfect for securing clothes duffels, camera bags, tents, stoves, and the like—all those sundry items that go in on top after you’ve ratchet-strapped the really heavy stuff.
Best of all, if you just need a couple of straps for, say, securing a sleeping bag to a motorcycle seat, just disassemble your FJ40 spider and there you go. Or hook four or five inline to create a ridgeline for a tarp—and use extras to create guylines that give a bit in a breeze. The hooks will fit standard tarp grommets, and are large enough to grab most motorcycle luggage racks and the upper rails of many roof racks (if not, you can simply loop the strap around the rail and put the hook through it). Pondering further, I remember a roof tent I reviewed equipped with a fly that flapped in the mildest wind. A few Lynx straps would have solved that problem more effectively and with much less hassle than the paracord solution I devised..
As you can see, a half-dozen of these straps could come in handy in dozens of situations. And I’m free at last from cargo nets.
The Lynx website is here. (Just ignore the ATVs parked off the trail.)
Automatically better?
What does this . . .
I thought about automotive transmissions the other day while riding my bicycle.
The reason for this sideways thought process was deceptively simple: I recently restored a Sekai 2500 Grandtour road bike I bought new in 1977, complete with a ten-speed drivetrain and simple friction downtube shifters.
For the last couple of decades I’d become used to various styles of index shifting on bicycles (not to mention ever-increasing numbers of gears ad absurdum). Just click the lever or twist the grip and bang—instant up or down-shifts and a perfectly aligned chain. So pervasive and advanced has this technology become that racers and pseudo-racers now use electric shifting, the entire process delivered by a battery-powered servo. Can a fully automatic bicycle transmission be far behind?
I expected it would take a few days to re-acquaint myself with the subtleties of friction shifting: moving the lever just enough to coax the chain into catching the adjacent cog or chainring without jumping past it, then micro-adjusting to ensure a straight chainline—all by feel and ear so as not to take one’s eyes off the road. Instead, I found the instincts came back within hours—along with the sheer simple joy of operating with the bicycle, instead of just operating it. So easily did I re-attune myself to the feel of the shifter and the perfect pitch of a chain in harmony with its gears that I found myself wondering if the whole index-shifting concept was a marketing solution to a problem that never existed.
An ongoing furor in the Porsche community then jumped into my head. The company recently introduced its new GT3—long considered the ultimate driver’s Porsche with its potent naturally aspirated engine, rear-wheel drive, and numerous weight-reduction features. The new GT3, however, is available only with Porsche’s Doppellkuplung (PDK) dual-clutch transmission, which—to the horror of thousands of Porsche purists—has no clutch pedal. The driver can shift “manually” using paddles on the steering wheel, but the rest of the process is enabled by sophisticated servos and computers. The short-form response of Porsche engineers to the howls of outrage was to shrug their shoulders and say, “PDK is three seconds quicker around the Nürburgring.” End of argument as far as a Porsche engineer is concerned—why would anyone deliberately choose a slower car?
. . . have to do with this . . .
Why indeed? A response from a long-time owner summed it up. I’ll paraphrase without quotes: With current technology and some that is just over the horizon, it will shortly be possible to build a car that could drive itself around the Nürburgring faster than its owner ever could. He simply straps in, taps “Nürburgring hot lap” on the nav screen, and wham—the car rips off a 7:05 while he sits with his arms crossed or sends a live iPhone video of his “accomplishment” to his buddies.
Would such a fearsome capability satisfy a sports-car aficionado? Doubtful. Surely, even with PDK it takes an expert driver to exploit a GT3 to the fullest, and Porsche has made its awesome capabilities more accessible with automated shifts measured in microseconds. But the purists correctly point out that in doing so, something of the connection between driver and car—to use my bicycle analogy, operating with the car instead of just operating it—has been lost.
And that brings me to modern four-wheel-drive vehicles equipped with automatic transmissions.
Just a few years ago there were valid arguments to be made for manual transmissions versus automatics in terms of the vehicle’s capability. The most salient advantage of the manual became apparent when descending a very steep incline, when, in first gear/low range, engine braking would allow one to stay off the brake pedal in most circumstances, thus reducing the chances of locking up the rear tires and losing directional stability. The slip inherent in automatic transmissions rendered engine braking much less effective.
That all changed when manufacturers exploited their vehicles’ anti-lock braking sensors to introduce hill-descent control. Now the vehicle’s computer senses speed and wheel slip on a steep descent, and can apply the brakes on individual wheels as needed—something a driver cannot do. I used to think my FJ40—with a long-stroke six that produced loads of engine braking, plus the extra-low first gear in its H41 manual transmission—was adept at descents. But an LR4 or Jeep JK—any number of modern trucks, in fact—with an automatic and hill-descent control is far superior. Add to that the demonstrable superiority of an automatic on low-speed technical terrain or steep ascents (no chance of killing the engine), and the choice between transmissions becomes an easy one (although the manual still holds an edge in fuel economy—for now).
. . . or this . . .
Still, we’re back to our original conundrum. When I negotiate a difficult section of trail in the FJ40, there’s a genuine sense of accomplishment at having done it with a manual transmission and no traction control of any kind. The same section in a Rubicon Unlimited, with an auto box, lockers front and rear, and disconnecting front sway bar, is a doddle. In a 4Runner Trail, with the addition of Crawl Control, which maintains a preset speed, my input is pretty much reduced to . . . steering. Yes, if I don’t steer the right way I can still put the vehicle on its roof (as can that GT3 driver with PDK), but it’s easier to avoid doing so without the need to multitask.
Does this mean I’m against these modern developments? Not a bit of it. For one thing, I’m willing to tackle obstacles in a Rubicon I wouldn’t in the 40. And I never fail to be astonished at the combination of luxury and capability in an LR4.
Nevertheless, I’m happy to have learned my four-wheel-drive skills when knowing how to operate three pedals at once with two feet was necessary—and satisfying. I’m sure many GT3 drivers feel exactly the same way.
. . . or this?
Update: My thoughts on bicycle gearing prompted this response from Tom Sheppard, who in between solo jaunts in the Sahara is a keen mountain biker. Fair comment, Tom:
J: Re your nostalgic thoughts on bicycle gear changing, I couldn't have done it your way on my farm-track ride to the gym this morning. I definitely needed both hands on the handle bars. Attached a recent test of the Image Stabilisation on the new lens - on the limit here! I 'd have been happier with two hands here too.
Line Luddites
The automotive world has seen dozens of advances in technology that have added to the cost of each vehicle, but which are so clearly superior that it made little sense to retain the old technology as a cheaper option. No modern carmaker would think of offering front drum brakes instead of discs to save a buyer some money, and no sane buyer would request them. The same goes for carburetors versus fuel injection, bias-ply tires versus radials, lap belts versus air bags—the list goes on.
Yet again and again on overland forum threads discussing winches and winching, a few people persist in recommending steel cable over synthetic rope—and not solely on the basis of cost. One recent commenter actually made the claim: “Steel line is more forgiving than synthetic for the inexperienced off-roader.”
I try to be as diplomatic as possible on such threads. However, whether or not it’s smart, many of those “inexperienced off-roaders” look to forums for advice, and telling them they’re better off using steel winch line brings to mind those old-timers who used to claim things like, “You’re better off not wearing a seat belt because you might be trapped if there’s a fire.” (Presumably this is the fire that breaks out after your head-on collision.)
I’ll be considerate of steel winch cable and grant that it has a couple of advantages. It is considerably cheaper than its synthetic equivalent—in fact, these days if you buy a winch with no cable already installed it should be easy to pick up a steel cable for nothing at all from someone who has switched to synthetic (I have a couple lying around myself somewhere*). Steel cable is also more resistant to being cut when tensioned over a sharp object such as a rock or a poorly fabricated bumper opening, and it is more resistant to internal abrasion damage if frequently immersed in mud or grit (and not subsequently cleaned).
And . . . that’s about it. On virtually every other count, especially the critical question of safety for the winch operator and his assistant, synthetic line is far, far superior. In fact, most competitive four-wheel-drive events have simply outlawed steel winch cable.
Why is synthetic safer? Three reasons: low stretch, low mass, and linear recoil.
Both SK-75 Dyneema—the standard for high-quality synthetic winch lines—and steel cable stretch less than one percent under load. However, a Dyneema line weighs about one-seventh what an equivalent steel line does, so the stored energy released during a break is far, far lower. (100 feet of 5/16ths-inch steel cable = 18 pounds. Equivalent synthetic = 2.7 pounds.) Additionally, the twisted construction of steel cable means that as it breaks (a process that actually takes several microseconds as individual strands snap) it experiences a violent untwisting motion, which can cause it to flail wildly as it recoils. The 12-strand woven construction of Dyneema obviates this. Finally, of course, the sharp frayed end of a broken steel cable can do a lot more damage than the end of a pliable length of Dyneema.
Twelve-strand SK-75 Dyneema—strong, easy-handling, and safe.
I once watched a synthetic winch line part from about 15 feet away. The vehicle involved was being winched up a short but steep and rocky slope as part of a trials competition, so the system was under full tension. It appeared the line was cut over a rock on the crest of the slope because there was no protective sheath over the line, and the operators neglected to lay down a protective mat. Whatever the cause, the result was utterly lacking in drama; there was barely even any sound discernable over the ambient noise. A soft pop, and the two ends simply sprang about five feet apart and fell limply to the ground. (Note here, however, that this lack of drama will occur only if there is no stretch or extra mass anywhere in the system. If you attach a synthetic line to a steel extension cable, you’ve introduced much more potential kinetic energy.)
It’s worth mentioning here that if your steel winch cable does break and manages to not delimb any bystanders, you’re pretty much dead in the water. You've lost whatever length of line is attached to your thimble or hook—five feet if you're lucky, 50 if you're not. You can use wire rope clips to repair the end, but you'll lose up to 20 percent of the rope's original strength—worrying if you've just broken it. If a synthetic line breaks, it can be respliced in the field to virtually full strength and put back in use (in fact you can knot it for a quick repair, although the strength will be reduced). And synthetic line doesn’t develop those nasty single-strand steel burrs, which can punch through a glove.
Other effects of the weight difference are not to be dismissed lightly. The extra mass of that steel cable is all the way out at the end of the vehicle, where its effect on handling and stress on the suspension is magnified. Just pulling 75 feet of synthetic line uphill to an anchor is a joy compared to the same task with a steel cable**.
Respooling (or spooling for the first time) a nicely limp synthetic line is infinitely easier than doing the same with steel, which has a powerful tendency to twist and coil back on itself. Laying down winch line evenly and tightly is critical to subsequent smooth operation, to avoid tensioned line diving down through gaps in the lower layers. Duncan Barbour, ex-manager of the British Camel Trophy team, reports that the biggest drawback he sees with synthetic line is the tendency to not spool it under sufficient tension—its ease of handling can actually encourage improper technique. A new line should be spooled by pulling another vehicle up a slight incline, not by simply leaning back on the line as you feed it in. (Incidentally, there are a few videos floating around suggesting crossing the line over itself as you spool it, rather than laying it on in even, tight layers. Don't believe them.)
Much has been written and said about the temperature sensitivity of Dyneema. Indeed, when heated to around 175 degrees Fahrenheit, it begins to lose tensile strength. However, interestingly, once cooled it actually regains full strength. Not until heated beyond the critical point of around 275 degrees do you suddenly find yourself with a irretrievable blob of molten plastic. That lower mark—possibly even the higher one—can be an issue if your planetary-gear winch has a brake inside the drum. If so, you should freespool when pulling line rather than powering out, and use caution when reversing a vehicle down a slope, to avoid prolonged braking. (Thor Jonsson at Viking Off Road once had a fellow return a broken Dyneema line and demand a refund. Interrogation revealed that the guy had lowered a half-dozen of his buddies’ trucks in succession down a steep ravine using an internally braked winch—and also that the winch itself had burned out.) Many planetary-gear winches now come with external brakes, which eliminate the problem. It’s also not an issue with the spur-drive Warn 8274 or the worm-drive Superwinch Husky. If you already own a winch with an internal brake, you can buy a sheath that will help protect the inside wrap of the line.
Many modern winches, such as the excellent Warn 9.5xp, incorporate brakes outside the drum and will not overheat synthetic line.
Steel-cable Luddites like to frown and speak darkly about the chemical sensitivity of synthetic winch line. I can’t remember the last time I spilled hydrochloric acid on my winch, or dragged line through a pool of trichloroethylene, but this chart (courtesy Marlow Ropes) should ease your mind (HMPE refers to High Molecular-weight PolyEthylene, which is what Dyneema is):
What else? Sun exposure worries some; in fact, Dyneema is extremely resistant to UV degradation. If you park your vehicle in the open in Arizona and fret about it, get a winch cover. And yes—you should periodically maintain your Dyneema line. If you frequently winch in abrasive conditions—sand, mud—it pays to occasionally wash it in a bucket of mild detergent, sqeezing apart the braid to flush out debris (some people simply powerwash it at a commercial car wash, although this is not recommended).
Strands are easy to push apart to flush out debris when washing.
In use, make sure you avoid running the tensioned line over sharp objects. This requires envisioning the entire pull you’re going to make, not just the initial layout—angles change, and a rock safely out of the way when you begin might not be partway through. If you can’t avoid running the line over an edge, use the section of sheathing supplied on most Dyneema lines to protect it—and add a floor mat or something else as well if possible. Avoid standing on the line, as it grinds in abrasives. If you switch from steel line to Dyneema, make sure your fairlead, whether hawse or roller, has no burrs or rough spots (there’s absolutely no reason not to use a roller fairlead with synthetic line, spurious anecdotes to the contrary). The same goes for the winch’s drum and your pulley blocks. As with any line, the radius of a roller, hawse opening, or pulley should if possible be six times the radius of the rope. Avoid, for example, low-profile hawse fairleads that create a tight bend radius on side pulls.
Roller fairleads work perfectly with synthetic winch lines, as long as they're not burred from prior use with steel cable.
If you’ve winched with steel cable and switch to Dyneema, you’ll be amazed at the reduction in effort. If you start out with Dyneema and then have to use a winch equipped with steel cable, you’ll feel like you’ve been transported back to 1960—which you have. It’s time to move winching into the 21st century.
*If, God forbid, you decide on this approach, make damn sure your free steel cable is sized appropriately. You don’t want to spool a line off someone’s ATV winch onto your Warn M12000.
**Depending on whom you’re asking, you might be told that “cable” or “line” or “rope” is the only proper term for the stuff a winch pulls with. Look up definitions for each and it’s clear that any will do. I like to mix them up in the same paragraph so as to annoy everyone at least once.
Wi-fi, anywhere on earth
Iridium has just released the GO! (their way to write it, not mine!), a satellite-based device that can create a 100-foot-radius wi-fi hot spot anywhere within transmitting range of one of the 66 low-earth-orbit Iridium satellites—in other words, just about anywhere on the planet.
Yes, you've guessed what this means: Now a group of people on a remote expedition can get on their smart phones or iPads and ignore each other just as if they were at a downtown restaurant.
Okay—the practical applications of this device are apparent, and, more significantly, it moves us one step closer to universally accessible communication. Whether or not that is a good thing I'll leave you to decide.
For more information, go the the Ocens website here.
A Marv in the palm of your hand
I once knew a mechanic named Marv. (Could there be a better name for a mechanic? Picture him: Brylcreemed black hair combed back in a bit of a pompadour; grey trousers and shirt with “Marv” on a shoulder patch, oil-stained loafers, and perfect white socks. That’s Marv.)
Marv had a shop in which he built hot rods for fun while doing ordinary mechanical work to pay bills. He had the contract to maintain J.C. Penney’s furniture-delivery trucks when I was driving them after high school.
The thing about Marv was, vehicles talked to him. I don’t think I ever saw him have to do more than listen to a truck or car for a few seconds before perfectly diagnosing its issue. “Throwout bearing,” he said into my window when I pulled up in a truck that was making a strange noise during shifts—before I even parked or mentioned the specific complaint. “Front U-joint,” “Water pump,” “Burned exhaust valve”—those are Marv diagnoses off the top of my memory. I once brought in a truck that had started running rough, and he said, “The timing’s slipped.” Did he go fetch his timing light? Nope—he pulled out a half-inch wrench, loosened the nut on the V8’s distributor, turned it with his head cocked to the side, revved it a couple of times, tightened the nut, and said, “There you go.” That time, one of my co-drivers (Vern—could there be a better name for a furniture-delivery man?) was with me. He knew Marv well, but not well enough.
“What’s the timing supposed to be?” Vern asked.
“About seven degrees before top dead center.”
“And how close do you think you got to that?”
Marv said nothing, just fetched his timing light and, well, I bet you can guess the rest by this point. Some time after that I was summarily fired for rapelling off the J.C. Penney warehouse roof (just for fun—a story for another time), and I lost track of Marv and his preternatural skill.
Today? Today any rookie with 20 bucks, an Amazon account, and a smart phone can enjoy a near-Marv-like mind-meld with an OBDII-equipped vehicle two days after clicking “Add to cart.” I know, because I finally ordered a KingMansion ELM 327 wi-fi-enabled OBDII reader that sends all sorts of interesting and useful information to my iPhone, including stuff even Marv couldn’t have determined (although I doubt it could identify a faulty throwout bearing). The only catch is, you’ll also need a compatible app for the phone—cheap if you buy something like the $10 OBD Fusion in the iTunes app store, more expensive if, like me, you don’t pay attention and wind up with one that also synchs with the phone’s accelerometer to record 0-to-60, G-force, and lap times. If I ever decide to try for a new Tacoma/Four-Wheel-Camper lap record at Riverside, I’m all set.
In case you don’t pay attention to such things, OBDII (for On Board Diagnostics) is a standardized system and port (in the U.S.), mandatory on all passenger vehicles since 1996. It allows the vehicle’s CPU (central processing unit) to communicate information about the engine’s emissions (the original intent), instantaneous fuel usage, actual engine temperature, engine load, air intake temperature, and much more, depending on what the vehicle’s manufacturer chooses to make available.
Most useful for owners, however, is the ability to read trouble codes when the dashboard energizes that annoying and oh-so-vague “Check engine” light, which could indicate anything from imminent disaster to something utterly harmless such as a failed reverse lockout switch (this happened on our old Tacoma).
I followed the instructions on the absurdly inconsequential-looking ELM, and within minutes the Tacoma was assuring me all was well fault-code-wise. Other functions such as instantaneous fuel mileage (full throttle in first gear with a camper = 7.142 mpg) also popped up and worked perfectly.
If you do hook up an OBD scanner in response to the check-engine light, don’t expect a little pompadoured Marv to pop up on the screen and tell you what’s wrong and how to fix it. All you’re going to see is an alphanumeric code (or perhaps several). You need a guide to tell you which of a mind-boggling array of faults you are experiencing. It might be, say, code P0812, indicating a reverse switch malfunction, which you can ignore if you’re in the middle of nowhere, or, say, P0304, indicating a misfire in cylinder four, which you would not want to ignore. Codes that begin with a P0, P2, or P3 are universal codes; those that begin with P1 are manufacturer-specific. Many websites have been created solely to list and explain OBDII codes. (Toyota has a professional site here that caters mostly to mechanics, but you can apparently buy a temporary subscription to retrieve current technical bulletins and OBD codes. I write “apparently” because it’s only compatible with PCs—and only using Internet Explorer, for God’s sake. C’mon, Toyota.)
By far the most likely scenario is that even after you look up the code you’ll be presented with some utterly incomprehensible diagnosis, such as P0608, “Control Module VSS output A malfunction.” The reason for this is that, when the people in charge were programming what the standardized OBDII sensor would monitor and flag, they decided they wanted it to be the equivalent of the most hypochondriac human being on the planet—just to be safe, and to give car dealers plenty of work. So—I have no proof of this yet, but I’ll get to the bottom of it—I’m virtually certain they kidnapped my mother, hooked up electrodes to her in a secret research facility in Detroit, and remarked admiringly, “Wow—we need at least 360 potential fault codes.”
Whatever the case, you’ll have to decide whether one of these obscure codes is reason to abandon a trip and head to a mechanic. My own reaction, if the truck were running well with no outward signs of trouble, would probably be to mutter, “Yes, mom, whatever you say,” and keep right on driving.
How to sell aftermarket brakes
The stock brakes on our 2012 Tacoma are . . . adequate . . . with the Four Wheel Camper mounted. On long, twisty downhill roads—I'm talking six, eight, ten miles here—I can feel the pedal begin to get mushy and brake effort increase. When Roseann was hauling a full cargo trailer north to Flagstaff this spring, on the descent into the Salt River Canyon she kept the six-speed (manual) transmission in third to maximize engine braking, but still described brake feel as "Decidedly mushy."
So I've been shopping for potential upgrades to the front discs (Tacomas, to Toyota's discredit, still come with rear drum brakes, which incorporate technology that reached its peak sometime in the 1950s and which are impossible to modify effectively).
One obvious possibility is Toyota's own TRD (Toyota Racing Development), but they didn't list a kit for the 4X4 Tacoma. Next up was Brembo, legendary supplier to such marques as Porsche and Ferrari. I Googled "Tacoma Brembo brakes," and indeed found what appeared to be a source for a Brembo kit. Rather eagerly I looked to the description for technical details, to determine just how the Brembos would improve on the stock brakes.
And here is the entire pitch for this ($1,600) kit from this company:
Brembo GT Slotted Brake Kit Features
- You won't find a cooler looking or operating brake kit than the Brembo GT Slotted Brake Kit.
- Nothing accents a vehicles wheels better than a trick looking Slotted brembo rotor and painted brembo caliper.
- Do yourself and your vehicle a favor and bolt-on a Brembo GT Slotted Brake Kit and give your friends something new to envy.
Words fail . . .
(And never mind the spelling and grammar . . .)
Bogert Manufacturing wheel chocks
Chocking your vehicle’s tires is one of the most basic and critical safety procedures you can follow before changing a tire, winching, or working underneath it. Yet how many of us ever use anything but nearby rocks or logs to do so? Not only are you at the mercy of what’s available (Will this work, or do I need that bigger one over there?), but if you happen to be leading a trip or are otherwise in a position of some assumed authority, it lends a rookie taint to your otherwise faultless command presence to be seen looking around for rocks.
I thought about this recently while looking around for rocks.
To make matters worse, I had a good set of chocks with me—the clever folding units made by Land Rover—but they were inconveniently stashed in a compartment under the rear jump seat of the Tacoma, which itself was under several layers of Pelican cases. So I took the lazy route.
Lessons learned: a) Have stuff like this easily accessible, and if it isn’t, b) Follow Graham Jackson’s First Rule of What to Do When There’s Trouble, which is, Slow down and brew a cup of tea, and then Jonathan Hanson’s First Rule of What to Do When There’s Trouble, which is Use the right tools. Sorry Graham. And me.
As much as I like the Land Rover chocks, their lightweight, folding construction pretty much relegated them to tire-changing and working-under duties. Thanks to the fertile mind of Richard Bogert of Bogert Manufacturing, I now have a set of heavy-duty, winching-compatible chocks.
Constructed of 3/16ths-inch steel and heavily powder-coated, the Bogert chocks take up virtually no more room than the folding ones if you stand them on edge in the corner of a cargo box. A set of them comprises not two but, properly, four, so you can anchor two wheels on both sides, or four wheels on one side if you’re on a hill. Additionally, a set of holes and slots in each chock allows you to chain two together on either end of the wheel to prevent shifting if the truck jerks back and forth under a load—nice. Each set of chocks comes with four chains, so you can anchor each pair of chocks on the inside and outside of the wheel if needed. The result is one solidly immobile truck.
The set is now stored in the “Camper Setup” Wolf Pack box that rides just inside the door of the JATAC's Four Wheel Camper. So accessing proper chocks will be as easy as picking up a rock, and my faultless command presence can remain intact.
From now until the end of June, Bogert is offering a 15 percent discount on all their superb recovery tools and accessories. Please use code K7E. Bogert Manufacturing is here.
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Overland Tech and Travel is curated by Jonathan Hanson, co-founder and former co-owner of the Overland Expo. Jonathan segued from a misspent youth almost directly into a misspent adulthood, cleverly sidestepping any chance of a normal career track or a secure retirement by becoming a freelance writer, working for Outside, National Geographic Adventure, and nearly two dozen other publications. He co-founded Overland Journal in 2007 and was its executive editor until 2011, when he left and sold his shares in the company. His travels encompass explorations on land and sea on six continents, by foot, bicycle, sea kayak, motorcycle, and four-wheel-drive vehicle. He has published a dozen books, several with his wife, Roseann Hanson, gaining several obscure non-cash awards along the way, and is the co-author of the fourth edition of Tom Sheppard's overlanding bible, the Vehicle-dependent Expedition Guide.