Tips for new mechanics

Here’s an axiom for budding mechanics, whether amateur or on a career track: Never, ever, ever, ever say, regarding a procedure you are about to perform on any vehicle, “Oh, this should only take (fill in the blank) minutes.” Or hours. Or days. Or years for that matter, if you’re tackling, say, a ground-up restoration on an S2 Lotus Elite.

Our recently acquired 1997 Land Rover Discovery, which will be used for training at the Overland Expos, came with the usual assortment of issues one would expect on an $1800 Disco. Most noticeable was the fine and rarely experienced view into the interior of the passenger-side exhaust manifold, courtesy a quarter-inch wide crack that split it into two pieces, each held more or less in place by its bolts but leaving ample room for un-muffled exhaust gasses to escape just inches from the combustion chambers.

A bit of web searching regarding replacement turned up plenty of exclamation-point-strewn stories of frozen bolts, bolts broken off flush with the engine block, extractors, bulk purchases of Liquid Wrench, Helicoiling, etc. etc. Thus, along with a scrap-yard replacement for the manifold, and suitable gaskets, I procured a full set of new manifold bolts, plus studs and nuts for the manifold/exhaust pipe flange—and studiously avoided any mention or even thought of how long the job should take.

And . . . all eight manifold bolts came politely free with little effort, and even the flange nuts came off from underneath the vehicle with just a bit of octopus-like wriggling to get my ratchet and extension in there for access. The old manifold (should I refer to it in the plural?) dropped off into my hand, leaving not even any gasket residue to clean. The replacement bolted on, I found that the exhaust pipe remained a good inch from the flange, but by first loosening everything again I was able to match them up and then torque it all down (is this tension why the manifolds crack in the first place?).

Amost before I knew it I was finished, and convinced that avoiding any mention of how long the job might take was the key to a smooth procedure. Mechanic’s superstition, perhaps, but hey, if it works . . .

So there I was with hours in the bag. What else? I had only one other job to do that day: replacing the previous owner’s Oregon license plate on the tailgate with the new Arizona plate. Fantastic, I thought, then: This should take 10 minutes, max.

Pause here with me to reflect on the can’t-be-un-said nature of what I’d just said to myself. 

But really, I mean, it’s a license plate, right? What could possibly go wrong? (Axiom for budding mechanics . . .)

The old plate was secured with four rather rusty standard head screws or bolts—I couldn’t tell which. (The rust was my second warning, the first being the colorful metal plate itself noting that this vehicle was from OREGON, where rainfall is officially recorded in furlongs). I applied a screwdriver. With a little effort, the first one turned. And turned. And turned. I tried another, and another. Same result. Obviously there were nuts of some sort behind the sheet metal, and they were frozen onto the bolts. Sigh . . . okay. The open door revealed an upholstered panel, inset  with a set of speakers down right . . . where . . . the license plate nuts would be. Fine. I undid the eight fasteners holding on the speaker grille. Then the bolts holding the speaker assembly (noting that both speakers were completely shot, add to list). Still no access, so out came the set of plastic panel-removal tools I’d just bought for the 911 (highly recommended over a screwdriver). Panel off, and . . . a nice reinforcing inner panel of sheet metal, which supported the opening mechanism, completely obliterated access to the nuts.

They're behind this . . .

Well, almost. I managed to get a set of pliers on one—it was some sort of T-nut with a plastic cover. Screwdriver on the other side, and zero luck—I couldn’t put enough torque on the screwdriver. Out came the vise-grips. With them clamped to the one nut I could easily reach, I put all the pressure I could on the screw. The vise-grips rotated until they jammed against metal, and still the screw would not budge (if anything the vise-grips were further squeezing the nut on the bolt, exacerbating rather than alleviating the problem). And this was the accessible nut—the other three were up in the one-inch-deep space between the inner and outer sheet metal. 

Have you ever noticed that when someone says, “To make a long story short,” it’s generally too late? In the end I had to file down the head of each bolt flat, then drill it out. (My right-angle grinder, which would have made a second’s work out of flattening each head, was out at Ravenrock.) Finally that damn Oregon plate came off, revealing a strangely ornate laser-cut Land-Rover-logoed rubber backing plate—an odd bit of style in a spot that ensures very few people will ever see it.*

Right—new plate, blank holes. Forget T-nuts, I got new stainless (!) bolts and nylocks, but, er, how to get them in place behind that one-inch gap? Fortunately I’m married to a woman who’s retained her slim figure, and with much cursing in harmony we were able to have her slide up the nuts behind the panel with two fingers while I inserted the bolts. A scant half-hour after inserting the first one, we were finished, and replacing the license plate had officially taken me longer than replacing the exhaust manifold.

As we were walking away, it occurred to me: “Aren’t we going to paint this thing?”

“Yes.”

“Normally you remove the plate to paint behind it.”

A pause, then: “They can mask it.” And, “Did you take off the front plate?”

Uh oh. Mentally sticking my fingers in my ears and muttering a firmly non-time-committal abadabadabadabadaba, I walked up and looked at the front plate. Magically, one bolt held it in place. I held my breath and applied the correct 11mm wrench. 

And it came right off.

Followed by a three-foot-long piece of bumper trim . . .

So much for superstition.

*An update from Land Rover honcho Bob Burns: "So a bit of Land Rover history for you. That laser-cut rubber mat was a port-installed “damper.” It seems the speakers and subwoofer in the rear door of the Discovery were powerful enough that, regardless of how tight the bolts were holding the license plate on, the speakers made the plate buzz against the rear door. So that was our contribution toward quelling NVH on the Discovery. Now you know the rest of the story."

Energy independence . . . for your overland vehicle

This will come as a shock to many of you, but it is actually possible to camp without electricity. 

Reliable visual records from the Middle Ages (1950—1985) clearly show families surviving—even, at times, apparently enjoying themselves—in campsites lit only by white gas or propane lanterns, retrieving food from insulated boxes cooled only with ice, and engaging in such non-electrically dependent activities as fishing, swimming, climbing trees, and reading books manufactured in the ancient Gutenberg manner, on paper. (A few disputed images even purport to show family members talking to each other.)

Of course it’s easy to idealize scenes in vintage Kodachrome transparencies. What isn’t so apparent are the tragic effects of those primitive times: respiratory problems from second-hand kerosene smoke, salmonellosis caused by eating chicken stored at above-optimal temperatures, blindness brought on after repeated attempts to read Field and Stream by the light of a candle lantern (not to mention the devastating tent fires also associated with open flames), ugly cases of fratricide sparked when siblings were forced to interact directly with each other. (“Where’s Timmy?” “I don’t know, mommy. Maybe a bear ate him.”)

We can thank the advances of civilization—the Cree, the Engel, the earbud—for the blessedly longer median life expectancies now enjoyed by overland travelers. But LED lanterns, 12V fridges, and the myriad of electronic entertainment and communication devices now virtually grafted to our persons—they all require electrical power. Those of us who’ve moved even farther upmarket with such things as truck-mounted campers need yet more, for water pumps, vent fans, heater blowers . . . although personally I’ll draw my line of sympathy this side of anyone who wants to power a flatscreen TV in the wilderness.

An auxiliary deep-cycle battery has become nearly standard equipment for a well-sorted overland vehicle, and with good reason. It keeps the starting battery free for its critical duty, and serves as a starting backup as well if connected with a selectable isolator such as the National Luna (although the advent of the brilliant Micro-Start and similar products has made this function nearly redundant). With a battery monitor it’s easy to keep track of usage and voltage.

However, depending on load (especially that fridge), you can run down even a high-quality Group 34 AGM battery in anything from six or seven days to less than one. If you’re on the move day to day, it’s likely your engine’s alternator will be more than adequate to bring the voltage back up to an ideal float level of 13.4 volts or so. But what if you’ve found the perfect beach or forest campsite and don’t want to move for a week, or two? Idling the engine is a notoriously poor (slow) way to recharge a battery, irrespective of the fact that you’re pointlessly burning fuel, causing pollution, and spoiling your ideal campsite with noise. You need a different power source—and the finest one you could ask for is a mere 93 million miles away.

For years auxiliary photovoltaic (PV) solar panels for vehicles fell into two broad categories and capabilities: You either had a permanently mounted rigid unit or units of decent (50 to 200 watts) output installed on the roof with brackets, or you made do with much smaller flexible PV panels which clipped directly to your battery and could be laid out on either the hood, roof, or ground. The former, while sometimes capable of maintaining auxiliary battery voltage nearly indefinitely, were bulky and heavy, and created serious overhead hazards for tree limbs, etc. The latter were rarely if ever capable of doing more than delaying the necessity for running the engine.

That’s all changing. Roseann and I now have two 100-watt semi-rigid PV panels on the roof of our Four Wheel Camper; attached directly to the roof via stout adhesive backing, they create essentially no windage or clearance issues, and over many trips have proven to keep our auxiliary fully topped up to run the camper’s fridge, (LED) lights, vent fan, and water pressure pump, and recharge capabilities for our extensive array of journalist-oriented electronic devices and cameras.

And now it’s possible to get that same level of input with a completely portable kit displayed by P3Solar at the Overland Expo. Their 200-watt flexible panel weighs barely five pounds, and rolls into a 35-inch by 5-inch tube. While it obviously takes more time to set up than a permanently mounted panel, you can use it on different vehicles, and if you want to park in the shade you can run the panel out into the sun (although since the panel is equipped with bypass diodes it handles partial shade quite well). Your roof is also now free for bicycle or kayak racks, or a roof tent.

The P3Solar panel connects with standard 2-pin SAE plug. You could run that through alligator clips and simply hook it up directly to your battery, but with that much input you’d need to monitor the system very carefully to avoid exceeding maximum voltage. Much better to run it through an MPPT (maximum power point tracking) charge controller, which will optimize the unit’s 24-volt output. A standard charge controller will work as well, but will pull the voltage down a bit and thus not exploit the panel’s full output.

The panel can be deployed by laying it flat on the ground; however, the company also offers a clever folding aluminum frame that positions the panel at a more optimum angle for those in latitudes above the tropics. It expands accordion-like in about five seconds and snaps into place; the panel then attaches to it securely with Velcro. The frame can be (that is, should be) staked to the ground with included stakes that are stouter than anything I’ve ever seen included with a family sized tent. Impressive. Thus anchored the assembly shrugged off a 20mph breeze out at our desert camp; Wally Stoss at P3Solar assures me it’s been tested at over twice that. The EZ-out kit include a larger diameter bag and a rigid tube to separate the panel and frame, and the whole kit is still under 20 pounds. 

On a very warm (95ºF) summer morning with the sun still low, I recorded a bit over 100 watts out of the panel mounted on the frame. Since PV output is lower in high temperatures, and obviously lower when the sun isn’t directly overhead—and since most PV panels never see their theoretical maximum—this is astounding performance. Most fridges draw in the neighborhood of three amps (36 watts at 12volts—and of course only intermittently), so I was already well ahead of that. 

It’s clear the P3Solar panel would give most overland vehicles complete electrical independence—and then some—for as long as you wanted to stay and enjoy that beach. I’m curious what the output of this panel will be in colder temperatures with the sun overhead. Imagine selling your excess electricity to fellow campers . . .

P3Solar is here.

A (very) premium field shirt (or is it?)

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Warning: If you’re a T-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops kind of outdoor person, please skip the rest of this article to avoid, a) choking on your coffee, and, b) sending me scurrilous emails. For the rest of you, here’s a question:

Can an outdoor shirt be worth $180? (You, in the T-shirt! See? I told you to stop reading. We’ll pause while you clean off your keyboard.)

Short answer: No, if . . .

1. It doesn’t fit.
2. It’s made in Hong Kong.
3. It’s over-engineered to the point that it hampers function.

Those who know me know I’m rarely seen not wearing a cotton khaki shirt. Long experience has shown the combination to be versatile wear for most of the places I frequent, from southern Arizona to southern Kenya. Fashionwise I should have been wiped out in the last mass extinction, but I like the look of a tucked-in business-like khaki shirt, and it lends a professional appearance that’s important for someone engaged in an outdoor profession. That same experience has convinced me that spending extra for a high-quality shirt pays off in the long run, in durability, fit, comfort—yes, even looks.

At least, up to a point.

I’ve written about the demise of the legendary outfitters Willis and Geiger (here). Recently Burt Avedon, the last respectable owner of W&G, created a new company with his longtime partner, Susan Colby. The first product the collaboration is the obviously W&G-inspired Signature Field Shirt, the link to which was sent me by a sartorially astute friend. Click—okay, great looking shirt. One hundred percent long-staple cotton Bush Poplin, check. Tea-died British tan, check. Zippered pockets behind the chest pockets, suitable for passport, check. Price? Oh. Ouch. 

Just when I’d gotten used to the idea of $100 Filson shirts.

Still, I thought (okay, rationalized), while I’m certainly not rich enough to buy four or five of these things to abuse in the field, if it’s all that it’s advertised to be it would be nice to have one for, let’s call it ‘dress khaki functions’—lectures, classes, book signings and the like. Let’s check sizing, and . . . . sigh. 

I’m going to be diplomatic, because I do know a few genuine outdoorsmen who are just big guys (Andy, are you reading?), but—when I see a size range in a shirt that begins with medium and goes to XXL (52-inch chest), I have to wonder if those products are really targeted at active, athletic travelers, or more at those who want to project the image of an active, athletic traveler despite the fact that they have attained a somewhat less-than-active physique. (I’m what I consider a rather ordinary 5’9” and 150 pounds, but my my shirt size these days is considered ‘small.’) To double-check, I looked at the ($134!) Avedon & Colby ‘British Army Officer’s Shorts.’ Sure enough, the smallest waist size was 34 (I’m a 31), the largest a 42. The A&C website shows a wartime photo of Field Marshal Montgomery and several officers in North Africa wearing identical shorts; despite what I bet were decent upper-rank rations, none of them looks to be anywhere near a 42 waist (check those knobby knees).

I wrote an email to Avedon & Colby mentioning my history with Willis and Geiger and expressing my disappointment with A&C’s portly sizing scheme—and immediately received a lengthy personal reply from Susan Colby, who swore that if I’d been a small in W&G shirts, the medium A&C shirt should fit me just fine. The size chart measurements seemed to bely this, but I’m swayed by personal service from any company these days, and clicked ‘Buy Now.’

First impressions were positive—it was indeed a good-looking shirt, with high-quality stitching and buttons. But, first major fail: It was made in Hong Kong. Frankly, at the price, this left me a bit stunned. There are shirts made in Hong Kong that I think are worth $180, but they’re from companies such as Ascot Chang and are are tailored to one’s exact measurements in ultra-premium fabrics.

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And . . . well, I tried it on and presented myself without prelude in front of my wife. Her first comment was, “Isn’t it too big?” And it was—my suspicions were entirely correct. The shoulder seams were good, and the cuffs hit the back of my hands; everything else was voluminously too large. I could have fit Monty in there with me (and yes, I know all about those rumors). The ‘retractable bi-swing back,’ ostensibly a feature to enhance freedom of movement, only made me feel like there was an extra quarter yard of fabric bunched up behind my arms, which indeed there was—it refused to ‘retract.’ The collar tab, designed to secure against drafts, instead flapped in my face when left loose. Had I kept this shirt I would have cut it off or sewn on a button to secure it folded away.

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Not all the features were superfluous. The zippered pockets would secure a passport and cash against street theft. The extended sun collar in back would prevent morning or afternoon sunburn. The bellows front pockets were actual bellows front pockets (listening, Filson?). The hidden button-down collar tabs prevent them flapping (which makes the loose flap all the more strange). The stitching details were all what one would rightfully expect.

Obviously, given the sizing, I returned the Avedon & Colby shirt (an effortless and polite process). Would I have kept it had it fit? I don’t think so. I think the bulky and uncomfortable bi-swing back, the annoying collar tab, and the steep price-vs.-origin would have outweighed the quality fabric and construction and the functional features. Just to reassure myself, I put on one of my old Willis and Geiger bush shirts (sans bi-swing back), and shouldered one of our side-by-side shotguns. I felt utterly no restriction of movement despite the much slimmer fit. I can’t help thinking the bi-swing back is a solution to a problem that does not exist—unless, perhaps, you’re of considerably larger girth than I . . .

While the Signature Field Shirt was not what I’d hoped, I’m still happy to see Burt Avedon and Susan Colby producing high-quality field wear. I hope their line expands with more products and more sizes—and perhaps some production brought back from overseas.

Okay—commence scurrilous emails . . .

Most epic Snoverland Expo recovery?

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It would be difficult to pick just one, after the record-breaking snow and rainfall at the 2015 Overland Expo WEST show at mormon Lake, Arizona. The NAU 4X4 Club cheerfully coordinated uncountable extractions from the camping area, and at one point constructed a daisy chain of several trucks to pull out a motorhome. There was Wolf’s stupendous deuce-and-a-half, pulling out another motorhome all by itself. Ross Blair used his supercharged Tacoma to recover a trailer and several vehicles. And who knows how many unnamed people simply pitched in with a winch or tow strap to tug someone out of the gloop.

On the other side of the venue, a different drama was unfolding, as the massive semi truck and trailer from host sponsor BFGoodrich ended up parked in a low spot that slowly became a quagmire during the Saturday snow and rainfall, despite the cinders laid down beforehand. On Sunday afternoon it was going nowhere.

A large tow truck was arranged, but the mud proved too sticky even with that pulling. We needed recovery mats. A bunch of MaxTrax appeared (as they always seem to do in these situations), but not quite enough to fully float all the tires necessary on an 18-wheeler. 

Meanwhile, in the nearby Camel Trophy area, we had just freed an LR4 that was stranded in a level patch of completely frictionless mud, using a pair of Crux Off Road’s new aluminum bridging ladders. Wedged under the Land Rover’s rear tires, they provided both lift and traction.

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Jeremy Plantinga, the designer and fabricator, was pleased with how they had performed all weekend being used and abused by Duncan, Andy, and friends. Now Nick nudged Jeremy and pointed to the BFG semi. 

“Oh, no,” said Jeremy. Plastic mats such as the MaxTrax can deform under a heavy load in resilient mud, but the whole point of a bridging ladder is to be rigid enough to support a vehicle over an empty span. The Crux ladders are rated for 7,000 pounds—we were looking at a truck that probably weighed ten times that.

“C’mon, Jeremy,” Nick taunted. “Let’s just see what happens.” Finally, reluctantly, Jeremy agreed, and Nick grabbed both ladders and ran, cackling demonically, to the semi. We wedged them under the rear wheels of the truck’s carriage, and gave the tow truck driver and the semi driver the thumb’s up. Slowly, ponderously, the truck began to move. The Crux ladders disappeared inch by inch under the wheels and were crushed into the mud. The semi rolled free, and we pried the ladders out of the mud, to find them . . . intact.

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It was amazing. A couple of center supports had bent downward, and the ladders wound up ever so slightly twisted, but they could have been instantly put back into service. The side rails were perfectly straight. We jokingly suggested to Jeremy that he should add a decimal point to his weight rating.

Inflate tires with your Micro-start

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I make no secret of my continually renewed admiration for Antigravity Batteries’ Micro-Start XP-1 and XP-10 battery pack/jump-start kits. The half-dozen or so of them scattered among the Overland Expo training team have been used and abused beyond reason, and they continue to function. We’ve started everything from motorcycles to 460-cubic-inch gasoline engines to turbodiesels. We’ve hooked three in series and produced excellent field welds (much to the horror of company president Scott Schafer). We make sure one is in any vehicle we’re driving.

Motorcyclists have begun carrying the smaller XP-3 and XP-5 Mini, freeing them as well from the tyranny of jumper cables or the need for a good Samaritan if caught with a discharged battery. Now Antigravity has come up with a cunning little air compressor, about the size of a sandwich, that can either be powered from a Micro-Start battery or plugged into a standard cigarette lighter socket.

I expected it to perform as well as the company’s other products, and it did: A quick test on Roseann’s R80 G/S took the front Continental 90/90-21 tire from 8 PSI to 35 PSI in two minutes flat, and the compressor didn’t even get warm doing so. The inflation hose is only about three inches long, so the pump simply hangs off its screw-on chuck. A dedicated 18-inch cord connects it to a Micro-Start power source (I used our XP-1); the ten-foot cigarette-lighter cord is long enough to reach into a vehicle or to another motorcycle.

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Of course, since this is a Micro-Start product, there's by now a certain assumption we'll abuse it. So I left the compressor hooked up to the power pack and connected it to a 235/85 16 BFG AT KO2 on our Tacoma. Ambient temperature was 95ºF. The tire was at 20 PSI; 16 minutes and 30 seconds later it had reached its nominal 40 PSI, and the compressor, while quite warm to the touch, was still buzzing away happily. The power pack still showed three of five status lights. So, while I certainly wouldn't use this as a primary compressor for a four-wheeled vehicle, in a pinch it would suffice.

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What more can I say, except I hope the manufacturer edits the features list on the box. The tire inflator is yet another excellent offering from Antigravity Batteries. And at $25 it is a bargain.

2015 Continental Divide vehicle report

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Last year, the 1600 miles of the RawHyde/Exploring Overland Continental Divide trip proved to be a challenge for the participating vehicles (report here). This year’s journey proved just as challenging, in different ways. In no particular order the nine vehicles along this time were:

• 2008 Ford F350 6.4 diesel double-cab pickup
• 2012 Toyota Tacoma 4.0 V6 with Four Wheel Camper (our JATAC)
• 2010 Toyota Tacoma double-cab 4.0 V6 supercharged, with canvas bed shell
• 2014 Ram Power Wagon double-cab with Four Wheel Camper
• Ford Raptor with Four Wheel Camper
• 2014 Ford Raptor with Northstar camper
• 2009 Sportsmobile on a Ford 6.0 diesel chassis
• Toyota Tundra with fiberglass shell and roof tent
• 2008 Toyota Land Cruiser 200-Series with roof tent

For the first couple of days we seemed to be getting off lightly—the worst issue to surface was a burned out turn signal bulb in the aftermarket headlamp assembly on Ross Blair’s Tacoma. But somewhere north of Grants, New Mexico, Michael and Darla’s Raptor/FWC combination blew the Firestone air bag on the right rear spring on a long off-pavement section, causing the bag’s internal bump stops to slam against each other over the mildest terrain. Inspection revealed that the air bag was the longer of the two offered for the Raptor by Firestone—probably a mistake with a camper mounted. It appeared that repeated stressing of the bag being folded over the lower location cone caused the hole—a worrying failure given the mere days-old installation. Much worse was the unbelievably shoddy installation by Desert Rat Off Road Center in Tucson. The over-long U-bolts securing the lower brackets had been left untrimmed, so they impacted the spring perches when the suspension flexed, bending them and smashing the upper threads. Phil Westergren, our ace group mechanic, advised Michael that the best approach might be to simply remove both bags and let the truck sag; when Phil did so, he found the nuts on both U-bolts finger tight. Disappointing.

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With both bags removed, the compliant Raptor suspension did droop noticeably, but retained far more travel than had been available with the collapsed bag left in place, so Michael and Darla were able to continue along with us. (Interestingly, Dennis and Margie, also in a Raptor with a heavier Northstar camper, had the same bags and had no issues the entire trip.)

Day four brought us to a fairly challenging boulder-strewn uphill section on a Forest Service road. I climbed in the passenger seat of the Sportsmobile to offer Marka some in-cab hints on wheel placement, but it soon became apparent the vehicle was suffering a distinct lack of traction, as she failed to climb several off-camber sections. Indeed, Phil, who was marshalling, reported that the front wheels were not getting power even though the (manual) hubs were locked, the driveshaft was turning, and as far as I could determine from inside the Atlas transfer case was correctly engaged. Fortunately the Sportsmobile had an automatic rear locker—and thus full traction to both rear wheels—so we were able to get Marka through the difficult section. But it presaged more significant problems on the icy and muddy sections we knew would be ahead. This was another issue we had no time to investigate thoroughly on the trail—the constraints of a paid trip.

After camping next to Elk Creek (Colorado), we attempted to drive up over Elwood Pass. However, we began encountering snow patches even lower than last year, and soon Phil decisively stuffed his F350 into a three-foot-deep bank completely covering the roadway, halting his and our further progress. With a quick KERR tug from Ross’s Tacoma (eliciting the expected comments from the Toyota drivers), we bailed and headed for Salida, the town beneath the 10,000-foot grass plateau on which the RawHyde Colorado camp sits.

Marshaling a kinetic recovery from a safe distance.

Reports indicated that, despite recent snowfall and rain, the back dirt route was clear, so we headed up the road through the San Isabel National Forest. As usual, Roseann and I took the tailgunner position to keep an eye out for any BF-109s tracking us with their MG 17s. No, wait, that’s not right. In this case, “tailgunner” just means making sure no one gets lost.

For ten miles or so the climb was uneventful—there were a few areas of slick mud and flowing ditches on the side, but nothing challenging—we were continually hitting lucky weather windows on this trip.

Then, after an easy creek crossing that led to a slight uphill section where water cut across the road and a ditch on the right carried it off, the two-meter crackled, and Cheryl in the Power Wagon said, “Um, I think I’m stuck,” to which Ross immediately replied, “No, you are definitely, absolutely stuck.” She had taken too low a line to cross the water-filled ruts in the road, and the massive truck with its mounted camper had slid into the ditch. 

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First try at towing, which would fail decisively.

The axiomatic approach in such situations is to begin recovery with the simplest technique, then work upwards in complexity and potential risk. A simple pull from Phil and his F350 had zero effect, so I replaced Cheryl in the driver’s seat and we rigged a kinetic rope between the trucks. Phil gave me some slack, backed up smartly but not quickly—and the truck moved.

For about 15 feet. I was trying to turn it out of the ditch, but the slope sucked in the front tires and Phil’s truck spun to a halt—not helped by me staying on the Ram’s throttle for just a second too long, further burying the right rear tire in the muck if it needed further burying.

Time for the winch, but first Roseann left to drive ahead with the rest of the group to the RawHyde camp, while Phil, Ross, Kevan, and I stayed (along with the apologetic Herndons). Before the group left, we collected four MaxTrax-style recovery mats and I got our recovery kit out of the Tacoma. It was getting late and we did not want any more false starts, so we went back to square one, got out the shovels, and cleared muck until we could get a plastic recovery mat wedged under the front of each tire. The Ram was equipped with an excellent and powerful Warn 16.5 winch, but I wanted to both maximize its efficiency and slow down the operation, so we attached a pulley block to the F350’s front bumper and led the cable through it and back to the Ram.

First try, with rocks stacked in front of the Ford’s tires and brakes full on, the winch inexorably pulled the anchor truck toward the stuck one. The road surface was just too slick with mud to provide traction. So we daisy-chained Ross’s Tacoma behind the Ford, added more rocks, and that, finally, did the trick: The Ram ever so slowly hauled its way diagonally out of the ditch and on to ‘firm’ ground. We got to camp just in time for one of trip chef Julia’s superb dinners.

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Ross Blair's Tacoma against the Colorado skyline.

After a layover day (and a timely winching seminar) at the RawHyde camp, we headed north to Hartsel for fuel, then explored several back roads on the way to Steamboat. At the fuel stop it became clear the Ram was leaking significant oil from the front main seal. Since it was highly unlikely this had been precipitated by the bog and recovery it had to be chalked up to coincidence. The engine only had 80,000 miles on it, so this seemed a bit premature. Near the same time, Joe noticed a heavy oil drip from the 6.0 turbodiesel in his Sportsmobile. This truck was equipped with dual external Amsoil filters—a worthy upgrade, except that one of the O-rings in the frame-mounted assembly had failed. Adding complexity also adds potential failure points.

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Pushing a proper bow wave on a stream crossing.

From Steamboat we faced what would turn out to be our most challenging day—a circuitous, almost all off-pavement drive north along Elk River Road, past the comically oversized ‘lodge’ at Three Forks Ranch—at $850 per person per night out of our range—and into Wyoming. Since major highways in Wyoming are often barricaded during bad weather (“If light is flashing, Wyoming is closed—Please return to Colorado”), the side roads can prove adventurous. And Sage Creek Road turned out to be just that—40 miles of oil-slick mud that reminded me of, well, the camping area at the 2015 Overland Expo, actually. Joe in the temporarily two-wheel-drive Sportsmobile had the most difficult task: While the automatic rear diff lock gave him nearly as much traction going uphill as the open-diff four-wheel-drive vehicles had, when you lose traction  on a diff-locked axle, you lose it all. Yet he only lost it on one muddy dip, sliding gracefully sideways into the shoulder. Once Joe realized he was stuck he instantly cut the power (er, quicker, in fact, than I had in the Ram), thus we were able to hook up a strap from David and Noell’s Land Cruiser and tug the Sportsmobile free easily. For the rest of the path to Rawlins we watched from the rear as Toyotas, Fords, and the lone Ram waggled up inclines and crept cautiously down greasy slopes. It was an impressive display of driving by everyone.

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David Alley prepares to gently tug the Sportsmobile out of a ditch.

Sadly, by the time we reached Wyoming’s Red Desert in the Continental Divide Basin, the Sportsmobile’s turbodiesel had developed a misfire—possibly an injector issue—and this, combined with the oil leak, convinced Joe and Marka to leave the group a day early and head for Salt Lake City to address things. The rest of us enjoyed a last camp on a broad grassy slope next to a creek, and watched a near-full moon pace the stars overhead across a sky unsullied by the lights of civilization. 

Conclusions? Note that several of the issues we experienced were caused by aftermarket additions—air bags, external oil filters. That’s a good reminder to be extremely careful when considering such modifications, to make sure any you choose are of high quality, and to be damn sure the installation is done correctly. It also points out the importance of pre-trip maintenance and inspection: The Sportsmobile, for example, had gone over 10,000 miles since its last oil change, an interval endorsed and boasted about by Amsoil, but over-optimistic for this kind of hard use.

Ford Raptor + no mudflaps =

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A more storage-friendly sand mat

The one big problem with proper, rigid sand mats is their size. Storing them inside the vehicle is a pain due both to bulk and their ability to damage nearby gear or luggage. Outside storage demands either a roof rack, a rear tire-carrier rack, or some other specialized arrangement.

So I was intrigued to stumble upon the Traction Jack, a two-piece sand mat only 25 inches long when folded. A pair fits inside a box about a foot wide by six inches deep.

The Traction Jack is stoutly built—in fact a pair weighs a substantial 28 pounds (compared to just 18 for a pair of MaxTrax). They are rated to 1,900 pounds per tire each, which easily handles most overland vehicles; a special-order version molded from high-strength nylon boasts a 4,500 pound per tire rating, which is up in fully loaded Unimog territory.

Obviously, the hinged Traction Jack will be of absolutely no value for bridging, even compared to the relatively flexible MaxTrax, which bridges surprisingly well when doubled. On the other hand, the two-piece construction of the Traction Jack should virtually eliminate kick-up into the vehicle's bodywork as you drive on or off it. 

The company cautions against wheel spin when driving a tire onto the mat, as excess heat can melt the poly composite nubs that provide grip. I'm not sure how one would completely eliminate wheel spin when buried in sand; I expect a little extra pre-recovery shovel work would help—which is a good idea anyway. Fortunately the company's excellent guarantee grants one free replacement of a damaged section, and a discount on further replacements. By then one would hope to have learned the proper technique. It seems to me larger nubs would reduce the issue and provide more traction as well, but I need to test these in the field to be sure.

Even folded, the Traction Jack is thinner than a MaxTrax.

Besides ease of storage, another advantage to the Traction Jack is price: At $180 per pair (black), they undercut the MaxTrax by $120.

Competition in the sand mat/bridging ladder market seems to be heating up. The excellent MaxTrax has in a short time become a (slavishly copied) standard by which other one-piece sand mats are judged. I think the Traction Jack will provide a viable alternative for some people, giving up some versatility (bridging) in exchange for convenient storage options.

The Traction Jack website is here. I'll have a pair with me at the Overland Expo. Come by the BFG booth where the sand pit tire demo area is. I'll try to keep them there. 

A dual-band radio for the JATAC

If you do any overlanding with a group, especially in remote areas and on routes where the vehicles might be out of sight of each other for periods, it’s smart to have some means of intra-group communication. Cell phones are okay for person-to-person talking, but cell coverage is still far from universal (more so where many of us like to explore), and in any case a phone is worthless for broadcasting a quick message to multiple vehicles at once. For that you need a radio.

Handheld UHF (Ultra High Frequency) FRS (Family Radio Service) transceivers are okay for very short-range work, as are the CB (Citizen’s Band) radios made famous by the 55mph speed limit, Smokey and the Bandit, and several bad country songs. But if you want some real range you’ll need to go the pro route and install a two-meter transceiver.

Two-meter communication uses the 144 to 148 MHz band of the spectrum. Due to the frequency allocation, and the power allowed to the units, range is significantly greater than possible with FRS or CB units—and it can be extended even farther by using repeaters. You need an FCC Technician Class amateur radio license to operate a two-meter radio, but the test is easy to pass after a review of the associated technology and rules available several places online, such as here. I’ll never live down my test, when I missed one question out of 35 while Roseann at the next desk aced hers. I should have cheated. (If you are attending the Overland Expo, you can study on your own, then pay the nominal fee and take the test at the Expo on Sunday between 8:00 and 10:00 a.m.)

For some reason I kept putting off installing a two-meter radio in the JATAC—we used a handheld throughout the entire Continental Divide trip last year, which is pretty lame for the trip leaders. So I rectified the situation for this year’s upcoming CD journey.

On the advice of ham-radio guru Bob McNamara (a frequent instructor at the Overland Expo), I ordered a Yaesu FT-8800R/E dual-band transceiver. Operating either in the two-meter or 70cm bands, the FT-8800R/E can put out 50 watts of transmitting power on the former (compared to five for most handhelds), and has a bunch of additional features that will take me years to master. If you’re faced with a difficult installation scenario (common in modern trucks with crowded dashes and even more crowded wiring harnesses behind them), the faceplate can be mounted on its own, connected to the remotely positioned main module with an included cord. It turned out in our case (2012 Tacoma), that a pocket in the center console just in front of the (manual transmission) gear shift seemed almost deep enough for the entire unit. I needed to pull everything out to determine if that was the case.

Modern truck interiors are a bit of a jigsaw puzzle. Taking one apart can be an hours-long struggle or—if you know the sequence—a matter of minutes. A call to our friend and master Toyota mechanic Bill Lee (who, annoyingly, keeps moving farther and farther away—first 250 miles, now 400 and counting*), and I had the secret to the center console. The cup holder assembly is held in by clips; pop it straight up and a couple of bolts and screws underneath release the rest of the assembly. 

I cut a hole in the back of the pocket large enough to accept the back of the radio and allow access to the power cord, antenna, and remote speaker jack. However, a trial fit revealed something else in the way: a large, bolstered plastic tab extending vertically downward from the dash structure itself. Even Bill had no clue as to its function. Its position directly above the air bag computer implied a relationship—some sort of protection? In any case it was barely but indubitably in the way of the antenna jack, so I unceremoniously took a hacksaw blade to it and cut off just enought to create a path for the antenna cable. Wit that accomplished, another trial showed the radio to sit nicely, clear of all movements of the shift lever.

Note the grey mystery tab on the right. Relieving a notch out of the left side allowed clearance for the antenna lead.

I’d bought a quick-release bracket for the radio; removing the console and loosening a few bolts on the bottom dash section gave me barely enough room to get my hand in behind and above the support piece to install stainless 10/24 locknuts and washers on the bolts holding the bracket. Amusingly, the perfect tool to drill the holes for those bolts through the plastic, with little maneuvering room, proved to be the awl attachment on my Swiss Army knife.

 With the radio in place, it was time to run the positive and negative leads of the power wires through the firewall. In my old FJ40 such a task is easy: Find a blank spot on the steel firewall, drill a hole, run the wires through it and shove in a rubber grommet. Done. Today’s trucks are different. There are multiple layers of plastic, carpet, and soundproofing to get through—and masses of wiring to avoid—before you even reach the firewall. Fortunately, on the driver’s side of the Tacoma is a very large rubber seal through which a bunch of wiring connects the engine and battery to the dash. I found a phillips screwdriver with a long shaft, taped the end of each radio lead to it, and poked through the seal into the engine compartment. The Yaesu positive and negative leads are each equipped with inline fuse holder, and I wanted to be able to use the radio even with everything else in the truck turned off, so I ran the leads directly to the battery. (This is a good idea anyway, as a transceiver requires full voltage to function properly, and wiring from the vehicle's fuse box can introduce spurious electrical noise. The FT-8800 has an adjustable auto shut-down function to prevent draining the battery.)

For the antenna lead I found an existing hole in the passenger footwell, up behind the vent fan assembly. After removing the rubber plug in it, I had to file a slot in the hole to get the antenna lead through it, but it went through easily afterwards with the glove box assembly removed for access.

I had several options for mounting the antenna, but decided on a hood lip mount—a  Comet RS-840 with a PL-259 connector—and a Comet CSB-750A dual-band antenna. The mount adjusts to enable a vertical stance for the antenna—I can’t stand tilted antennas—and in addition to clamping to the lip of the hood with four hex-head screws, has a brace that extends to the fender to enhance rigidity. On our truck the brace didn’t rest against the fender lip, resulting in an obnoxious side-to-side wobble in the antenna, so I glued a thin piece of rubber to it. That made a solid connection. Once mounted thusly, you don’t want to close the hood as so many people do, by dropping it from a foot or so high. Since I’ve always loathed this habit, and instead close all hoods by lowering them gently over the safety latch, then pushing down, this is not an issue for me.

One other note here: The antenna needs to ground to the hood via the four hex-head clamping screws. On the Tacoma hood, the edge underneath is trimmed with a thin strip of rubber, so you need to be sure the screws get through the rubber to the bares steel. I used a very small flat-head screwdriver to twist through the rubber strip. 

And . . . finished, aside from mounting the microphone holder to the side of the transmission tunnel, and ordering a Yaesu external speaker. At last we’ll have a radio suitable for our responsibilities as trip leaders, and great for simply sharing interesting sights along the spine of North America and elsewhere.

*If you own a Toyota or Lexus and live within, say, 400 miles of Farmington, New Mexico, Bill's Toy Shop is worth the trip for major work. He'll also be teaching several mechanics classes at the Overland Expo. billstoyshop.com