Happy Hour with National Luna

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Look closely at the photo above. Aside from the obvious bit of magic we now blithely accept as normal—I’m downloading and viewing photographs in the middle of the Simpson Desert—note the cocktail. It’s a refreshing warm-weather concoction called a dark’n stormy: dark rum, lime juice, simple syrup, and ginger beer, served over ice.

Wait a minute. Ice cubes, six days from Anywhere, Australia? Yes, thanks to the National Luna 50 Twin Weekender fridge/freezer we had along. 

Just as with digital photography and laptop computers, we now take for granted the sorcery of the Engel 12V fridge and its descendants, which forever eliminated that three-days-out semi-cool swill in the bottoms of our old Coleman coolers (note I’m referring to proper fridges employing proper compressors, not the ineffective thermoelectric coolboxes). I don’t predict ice chests will go the way of 35mm film and typewriters any time soon—a fridge is still a wince-inducing investment—but increasingly an Engel/ARB/Dometic/Waeco etc. is becoming one of the first accessories added to a new overlanding vehicle. (When we were stopped at state border agricultural checkpoints in Australia, the officers automatically said, “Need to check your fridge.” They assumed anyone in a Land Cruiser had one.) 

Recently National Luna upped the ante, and gave us fridges with a separate freezer compartment. No longer do we have to struggle along with just cold beer, milk, and cheese; now we can add to that frozen meats, ice cream—and the means to keep a cocktail properly chilled. (Of course 12V fridges have always had the ability to freeze, but you had to choose one function or the other—fridge or freezer—or bring two units. We’ve done that on group safaris but it’s a bit much for a single vehicle.)

There are several quality brands of 12VDC/120VAC fridges on the market. We’ve had both an Engel and an ARB for years, and each has performed perfectly. With the exception of Engel, which has stuck with their tried and true Sawafuji swing motor compressor, and Waeco, which uses a branded compressor, virtually all fridge makers use the identical SECOP BD35 compressor in their smaller units, and the SECOP BD50 for larger fridges. (These were formerly known as Danfoss, but that company was bought out in 2010.)

Since the compressor is the heart of the fridge, you might think there wouldn’t be much difference in performance between brands using the same one, and continue to wonder why there is such a price disparity between those brands. Indeed, in general all work well and are reliable in harsh conditions. But the thickness and quality of insulation has an obvious impact on how often the compressor has to cycle (and thus use power) to maintain a set temperature, as does, to a lesser extent, the lid seal. Also, the thermostat can simply turn the compressor on or off, or the manufacturer can incorporate a sophisticated electronic control that varies the output in response to several parameters, further conserving energy. Inexpensive fridges use plastic exterior and interior cladding; more expensive models use aluminum or even stainless steel. In some fridges the evaporator plate is exposed in the interior, where it is susceptible to damage; in others it’s enclosed. Some fridges use plastic latches, others stainless steel.

Finally there are the ergonomic factors. Does the lid open only one way, or can it be switched to hinge sideways? Is there a useful interior light? Is the interior simply one big space, or are there baskets for organizing and securing contents? Does the control panel have an actual thermometer, or just a dial with numbers? What about a voltage monitor and adjustable low-voltage cutout? And since I’ve already written “finally,” a postscript that might or might not be important to you: You’ve spent a lot of money—does the fridge look like it’s worth it?

National Luna justifies its premium pricing by handily checking off all these factors. Particularly in the category of performance, in the fridge comparison tests in which I’ve been involved it consistently manages to both cool contents the quickest and keep them that way while using less power overall—an impressive trick. In fact, the one beef I have with this fridge is the name: “Weekender?” Not sure what NL was thinking, because the 50 Twin combines a 40-liter fridge with a 10-liter freezer—enough capacity for a far longer trip than one weekend. Not only is the capacity generous, but an easy-to-miss additional advantage of fridges over ice chests is that you don’t have to load all the contents at the beginning of the trip; the fridge will easily chill stuff added en route. We had more than enough room for all our refrigerated goods for ten days between supply sources. 

And the ice cubes just kept coming, every evening . . .

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The NL fridge temporarily lashed down next to the Kanz kitchen. The fridge will be moved to a permanent position at the back of the Troopy once we have the cabinetry installed.

National Luna is here. North American distributor Equipt is here, offering free shipping as of this writing—or you can pick one up at the Overland Expo. If you have a family and need more room than the 50 Weekender, NL makes several larger models.

When you don't really need it, but . . .

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Sometimes quality—and the money you spend for it—is a must when outfitting a vehicle for backcountry travel. 

For example, most people would agree it’s stupid to economize on tires. They are your connection to the road and trail, and your life literally rides on them. Another: I’ve long (probably too long for some readers) pontificated on the value of high-quality tools, arguing that if you have brought out the tools something has already gone wrong, and it would be foolish to risk compounding the situation by using a cheap tool that might not do its job or even break. Likewise, I stand by my stance that you should by the best tent you can afford (read why here). Same goes for air compressors, winches, and many other things for which poor quality can be inconvenient if not downright hazardous.

For other gear, economizing has few if any disadvantages. For example, I own a superb Western Mountaineering goose down sleeping bag that weighs less than two pounds, is comfortable to 25ºF, and stuffs to the size of a loaf of bread. For motorcycle travel or sea kayaking, where weight and bulk are vital considerations, it’s perfect. But for travel in a 4,000-pound truck, why spend $400 when a $90 synthetic-fill rectangular bag from L.L. Bean will be roomier, keep you warm at the same temperature, and have a cozy flannel lining with jumping deer printed on it? Yeah, it weighs five pounds, so what? Or there’s the $35 Lifetime folding table my friend Graham found at WalMart while doing an exhaustive magazine test of camping tables; it won not just the value award but overall as well. We just took it across Australia, and it performed perfectly.

There’s a third category, and it applies when a particular passion is involved and the item in question might not need to be the best—you simply prefer the best. Example: It’s useful to have a pair of binoculars in the vehicle, for identifying distant landmarks, scouting, watching animals, or stargazing. There are plenty of $150 models available that will suffice nicely. But if you’re a passionate birder and naturalist, as Roseann and I are, you’ll want the sharpest, brightest, and most weatherproof instrument you can get. We spent—well, move the decimal point right on the above price and you’ll get the idea—on ours, but every time we look through them we appreciate the superior technology and craftsmanship. They’ve proven worth the expense over and over.

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What about cooking in the field? One fellow might be happy to dump a tin of Dinty Moore stew into a cheap aluminum pot sitting in a fire, then eat it out of the pot with a plastic spoon. Dinner takes 15 minutes from lighting a match to finishing. The sign of a cheapskate with no passion? Who knows—he might keep the evening meal simple so he can set up a 5-inch Takahashi astronomical telescope that cost as much as his truck, and split binary stars all night long. 

For many other people, though, one of the high points of each journey is the challenge of creating and serving gourmet meals from a compact traveling kitchen or chuck box—and doing so with an eye on aesthetics. The fridge will be stocked with fresh vegetables and meats, the spice kit will be a kit and not a reversible salt/pepper shaker, and nary a plastic utensil will appear on the table. Table? Sure, that WalMart number might hold up your food, but wouldn’t slatted oak be much more satisfying (at least a tablecloth . . .)? 

And what about kitchen knives? Sure, a blister-pack “chef’s knife” from the grocery store might work, but anyone serious about cooking from scratch is going to want something sharper and better balanced. And probably not just one—a deep-bladed chef’s knife should rightfully be accompanied by a smaller paring knife, and perhaps a longer slicing knife. 

The problem is that within the limited confines of a chuck box, full-size knives can steal a lot of space, and if left loose—and properly sharpened—can be a real hazard, and the edges easily chipped. This conundrum was on the mind of Carl Jonsson, of Tools for Adventure, when he designed the Tiktaalik Field Knife set. It comprises a chef’s knife with a versatile 6 1/2-inch blade, a paring knife, and a serrated slicing knife. The trio—along with two useful high-density plastic cutting boards—fits in a metal case 5 1/2 inches wide by 11 inches long by just 5/8ths of an inch thick. How did he accomplish that? Simple: He left off the handles.

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That’s not as odd as it might seem. Each Tiktaalik knife is made from a single piece of Sandvik 12C27 steel. The grip area, normally beefed up by plastic or wood scales (to use the correct term), while flat, is rounded and polished, and surprisingly comfortable and secure to hold, not to mention being effortless to clean. The chef’s knife balances right at the rear of the blade. Each knife fits into a precise cutout in the base of the case, but is easily popped out by pressing down on the tip of the blade. The base, as well as the plastic slab that captures the knives on top, doubles as a very decent cutting board. The closest comparison I know of is the Snow Peak chef’s knife, which comes in a wood case that hinges open to double as a cutting board—however, you have to use the outside of the case, which quickly gets stained and scarred. The Tiktaalik set gives you two cutting boards, and the metal case remains clean. (One suggestion: Fingernail grooves in the top cutting board would make it easier to lift out.)

Sandvik’s 12C27 is, on paper, a fairly ordinary stain-resistant steel, containing about the same amount of carbon (.6%) but less chromium (13.5%) than, say, 440A, which is widely used in moderately priced knives. However, bladesmiths report that 12C27 seems to be remarkably pure, and easily heat treated to 57-59 on the Rockwell (HRC) scale. We’ve been using the Tiktaalik chef’s knife for some time now, both in the field and at home, and the edge hasn’t needed touching up yet—a good sign. 

The Tiktaalik Field Knife set takes up scant room in either our Kanz Field Kitchen or the older, smaller chuck box I made years ago. Yet in use the knives perform virtually as well as much bulkier standard models would. (Roseann says that if she were doing a lot of cooking for a large group she would probably bring a standard chef’s knife—a fair caveat.) At $199 the price is reasonable (the knives alone are available for $149). Could you make do with something less? Certainly. It just depends on your level of passion. 

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Tools for Adventure is here. Many other interesting products as well.

A million miles of faffing about

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Whether your vehicle is advanced . . .

Some time ago I decided to tally the miles I’ve driven in my entire life, beginning with my first car, a 1971 Toyota Corolla (116,000), progressing through the two J.C. Penney furniture-delivery trucks on which I put, collectively, over 250,000, on to my FJ40 (316,000 and counting), etc. etc. I was not surprised to find the total well over a million miles.

So you can assume I have my driving environment completely sorted by now, right? Nope. I am always finding myself short something I could really use immediately, or if I have it it’s buried in the back cargo area somewhere. During that million miles there's no telling how much time I've wasted faffing about, as the English say. So I decided to make a list.

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 . . . or basic, you can optimize your driving convenience.

• High-quality window cleaner: Even if you’re conscientious enough to put window cleaner formula in your vehicle’s washer bottle instead of plain water, it won’t be strong enough to deal with the really impacted bugs you murder at highway speeds. Yet most common household window cleaners contain ammonia, which dries out rubber seals on vehicles and should never be used on windows with aftermarket tint film. Premium cleaners such as Invisible Glass work well and won’t harm tint film. The corollary to this is, keep your wiper blades in good shape. Test them periodically, before you get caught in a downpour and find they chatter uselessly back and forth. 
• Blue shop towels: These aren’t actually the best for cleaning windows (some pros insist newspaper is the best, followed by a microfiber towel for drying), but they have so many other uses that the versatility wins.
• Dial-type tire pressure gauge: Eschew the cheap pencil gauges and do it the professional way. Tires have become so reliable that they’re easy to ignore, but maintaining proper—and consistent—pressure reaps benefits in safety and economy. If you spend more money on a gauge you’re more likely to use it. I’ve found the models from Accu-Gauge to be good for the money.
• Flashlight/headlamp: LED of course. I like models that combine a low, 10 or 15-lumen setting for reading or doing repairs with a serious, over 200-lumen high beam. You can go the lithium route and not have to worry about replacing batteries for a very long time, or take the available-anywhere-on-earth-and-cheap AA approach.  
• Knife/fork/spoon set: This might seem odd, but I’ve frequently found myself buying some snack on the road better eaten with utensils, and having a set easily accessible is nice. I keep a Snow Peak titanium set in the center console. Steel would be fine, but the titanium saves on GVW and enhances fuel economy. Just seeing if you were paying attention.
• First-aid kit: Keep it in the vehicle and don’t cannibalize it for other uses so you find yourself without the basics when you need them.
• Lens cleaner cloth: A detail, but nice to have and more effective than your shirt. Tucked in a little ziplock in the glasses compartment of fancy overhead consoles, or in the registration pocket of the sun visor.
• Hand cleaner/degreaser towlettes: Not the ubiquitous Wet Wipes; I’m talking about those infused with proper degreaser, such as the Fast Orange or Scrubs wipes. You can get them in a bulk dispenser tube or little packets.
• Nitrile gloves: Degreaser towlettes are all well and good, but it’s better not to get greasy in the first place. I keep a couple pairs in the Land Cruiser, 40 or 50 in the Land Rover ;-)
• Work gloves: The newer fabric mechanic’s gloves are okay, but I still prefer leather.
• Mini binoculars: As a naturalist and birder I of course own a de rigueur set of absurdly expensive German-made binoculars, but I keep an inexpensive compact 8 x 20 set from Pentax in the glove box for impromptu observing. If they’re stolen I won’t be tempted to slit my wrists.
• Flares: Either the traditional fire-and-brimstone type or the battery-operated LED versions. Foldable reflective triangles are also suitable.
• Ground tarp: Years ago I bought a military surplus canvas folding stretcher. It’s incredibly stout, has handles up and down the sides, and folds flat. It’s perfect for working under a vehicle. And, of course, it would serve as a stretcher if needed.
• Insulated water bottle: Leave a steel bottle full of water in your parked vehicle in Arizona in summer and it will soon be hot enough to brew coffee. The insulated versions are far better.
• Notebook/pen: Mileage, fuel purchases, fuel economy, restaurants, birds sighted, road conditions—there’s no end to the stuff crammed into my notebook. The Field Notes brand is a superb source for indestructible products.
• Multitool: Despite that 60-pound tool case in the back, I like to have a multitool to grab for quick non-critical fixes or tasks. 
• Ice scraper: Yes, we have these in Arizona.
• Bug-out bag: Actually an article on its own—a day pack stocked with supplies you might want if there is ever a need to precipitously abandon your vehicle. Sign up for Mark Farage’s excellent discourse on this at the Overland Expo.

Any other suggestions? Comment or email me.

Airing down—and up—the pro way

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One of the most frequent questions people ask me is, “What’s the the best thing I can do to improve my vehicle’s off-pavement performance?” Many of them seem distinctly disappointed when I answer, “Air down your tires.” I’m sure they’re hoping I’ll facilitate some expensive and impressive modification—diff locks, external-bypass shocks, three-piece titanium wheels, something that would justify putting a stylish brand sticker in a window. But the fact is that nothing is easier to do or more effective at providing several instant benefits than reducing your normal street tire pressures to suit the immediate conditions. I’ll repeat: Nothing.

First, lower pressure increases traction by increasing the contact area of the tire and allowing it to better deform around obstacles and grip them. Flotation in sand is enormously enhanced with the longer footprint provided by lower pressure (not so much greater width as many suppose).

But the advantages don’t end there. Lowering pressure alleviates stress on the vehicle by effectively reducing the spring rate—the tires flex enough to absorb impacts that would otherwise have to be dealt with by the springs and shocks. That translates to much greater comfort for the driver and passengers.

Finally, the above characteristics contribute to reduced impact on the trail. We saw first-hand evidence of this on a recent crossing of the Simpson Desert in Australia, via the Madigan Line—so-called after Dr. Cecil Madigan, who led the first scientific expedition across the area in 1939. The Madigan Line cuts directly across the huge field of parallel sand dunes that characterizes this part of the Simpson—1,130 sand dunes to be more or less precise. The dunes themselves are stabilized and well-vegetated, but the bare track still needs to ascend and descend each dune, and despite the very sparse traffic on this route the final approaches and crests are often cratered with “hoon holes,” where those who disdain airing down—or even engaging four wheel drive—have left huge divots from futilely spinning tires or frantic, lunging ascents.

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Graham and I actually aired down our Land Cruisers prior to hitting the dunes, on the stretch leading to the old Andado Station, a fine track but well-known for its long stretches of corrugations (or washboard as we refer to them in the U.S.). I reduced our pressure from 40 psi, which we’d run on the paved Stuart Highway to Alice Springs, down to 32, and Graham did likewise (he’d found his tubed tires on split rims at a harsh 50 psi). It took much of the sting out of the sharp undulations and eliminated the skip-fishtailing that can occur with higher pressures. (An Australian writer described those corrugations as “brutal.” All I can say is he needs to see the corrugations on the seven-mile dirt track to our house in Arizona. Or those on the road from Namanga to Amboseli. But that’s another story.)

Once in the dunes, we further reduced pressure to around 22 psi. This is well above the 14 we might run in very soft sand, but it worked perfectly on the combination of flat, compacted inter-dune track and the chewed-up ascents and descents. We even summited the famous Big Red dune outside Birdsville with no drama.

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Once past Birdsville, on the high-speed gravel Birdsville Developmental Road, we re-inflated—and that’s where the catch is for many people who grasp the concept of airing down, appreciate its advantages, but rarely if ever do it.

Why? Because a lot of those people carry a compressor that cost them as much as a couple of pizzas and is about as effective at actually adding air to a tire, despite the “150 PSI!” claims on the box. A single 45-minute session laboriously moving four tires from 25 psi to, say, 28, while their $29.95 compressor buzzes and vibrates in circles like an enraged chihuahua, and that’s it. The thing gets tossed in the bottom of the tools, to be used in the event of an actual flat, if at all. The same people likely used the point of their Swiss Army knife to depress the valve to deflate each tire, another laborious procedure. It’s little wonder they inflate the tires on their new truck to 40 psi and never budge from that.

We knew better. And we were, after all, in Australia, home of some of the best expedition equipment manufacturers on the planet. In Sydney we had picked up a pair of ARB E-Z deflators, and two ARB portable Twin compressor kits (CKMTP12). The single-cylinder ARB High Output compressor on our Tacoma has been working perfectly for several years operating a locker and inflating tires, so I was eager to compare the more powerful Twin in field use. 

Airing down takes less than a minute per tire with the E-Z deflator, which unscrews and captures the tire’s valve core, allowing a much greater volume of air to exit the valve stem, and gives you precise control with its sliding actuator. The only faster way I know to air down four tires is with a full set of the superb set-and-forget CB Developments Mil-Spec automatic deflators—but that full set will cost you $400, versus $40 for the ARB unit. An E-Z choice, if you will.

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Regarding portable 12V compressors, as with so many other products it’s been my experience that you get what you pay for. The $30 units that plug into a cigarette lighter simply won’t cut it for field use. I know people who’ve been happy with the ubiquitous Masterflow MT50 and its variations, which are available for less than $100; these clip directly to the battery, meaning they can draw more amperage, but they are still achingly slow, and I can recall at least three failures related to me by users. Simply put, if you’re going to go the pro route for airing down (and repairing) tires, you need a pro-level compressor. You do not want to get caught after a section of soft sand with all your tires at 14 psi, no way to inflate them, and 30 miles of rocks ahead. (Especially when it's been six days since you've seen another human.)

Ignore the psi rating—virtually any pump will produce more than enough theoretical pressure. It’s the cfm (cubic feet per minute) rating and duty cycle you need to evaluate. The cfm is self-explanatory. Duty cycle refers to how long the unit can run before it needs to shut down and cool off. A 25-percent duty cycle means the pump can run for 15 minutes out of an hour. It’s easy to see the relationship: A high cfm rating means little if the duty cycle is poor, and a 100-percent duty cycle means little if the cfm rating is below standard. Furthermore, some compressors display an impressive cfm rating at zero psi, but will fall off significantly with higher pressures. Look for factory specs that list both. 

The Australian-built ARB Twin boasts a 100-percent duty cycle, produces 6.16 cfm at zero psi and an impressive 4.68 cfm at 29 psi. How does this relate to the real world? Back on the Birdsville Developmental Road to air up, I hooked up the Twin’s leads to our Land Cruiser’s battery, flipped the rocker switch, connected the chuck to the first tire (still at 22 psi), settled back on my heels to wait a couple minutes, and, er, what? The tire seemed to rise awfully quickly. I disconnected and checked the pressure: 42 psi. I was only aiming for 38 . . . 

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I bled a bit out and moved to the other three tires. I didn’t set a watch to any of them, but it certainly took no more than a minute per tire to reinflate from 22 psi to 38. That rivals my benchmark for powerful compressors, the Extreme Outback ExtremeAir Magnum. And the ARB doesn't have a single "Extreme" in its name.

As a reliable and durable tool for remote use it would be hard to imagine a better configuration than the ARB Twin, given the extensive redundancy: Two all-ball-bearing motors, two cylinders, two inline fuses, and internal thermal protection for each motor. Twin air filters are washable sintered bronze, not paper. It’s highly moisture and dust resistant (the cooling fan is actually sealed to IP55 specs); the cylinder bores are hard anodized and the piston seals are Teflon-impregnated carbon fiber. In addition, the portable kit incorporates a four-liter aluminum air tank, which enables the system to run most air tools (it’s regulated to 150 psi). For the distinctly premium price, I wish the kit came with the ARB inflator that incorporates a dial gauge, rather than the simple clip-on chuck that is standard. But the waterproof case is strong, and the organizer pockets keep hoses and accessories neat—an underappreciated feature on expeditions where entropy nudges things toward clutter. The battery clamps are sturdy, the inline fuses easy to access if necessary, and there's a solidly mounted quick-release fitting for the air line next to the (lighted) power switch. You’ll know you’re dealing with a substantial piece of equipment when you pick it up—the whole package weighs 33 pounds, about as much as a Hi-Lift jack. The compressor alone weighs 19.4. 

If you prefer a built-in compressor (I normally do, but we haven’t yet decided on the final configuration in the Troopy), the air filters of the Twin can be relocated, rendering the entire unit submersible. ARB was not messing around when they designed this compressor.

The Twin is a significant investment ($830 for the kit; $520 for the compressor alone). But consider these two facts: 1) As stressed above, varying your tires’ pressures to suit conditions will do more than anything else to enhance your vehicle’s off-pavement prowess, your comfort, and the condition of the trail, and 2) Tire failure is by a significant margin the number one reason for breakdowns in the bush. With a high-quality compressor such as the ARB Twin you have both scenarios covered with professional-level ease.

A singularly excellent product

I won't get any free gear out of this, because I'm afraid I don't think as highly in general of The North Face products as I did 20 years ago, but their Base Camp duffel is outstanding.

We stuffed one with all our ancillary gear on the way to Australia. Multiple handles facilitated grabbing easily whether it was on an airport luggage carousel or deep in the recess of our vehicle's cargo compartment. The 1000-denier laminated nylon material is tough and easy to clean, and a D-shaped main zipper makes loading easy as well. Shoulder straps—which are actually contoured—meant I could sling it over my shoulder and leave two hands free for other luggage. And compression straps kept everything in its place. The giant TNF label ensures everyone in the airport knows you're on your way to do something ADVENTUROUS.

I'm something of a duffel-bag snob (or connoisseur if you prefer), but I'll put the Base Camp right up with my top two duffels, the B.A.D. (Best American Duffel) and the classic standby Filson. One of our Filson duffels has been to Africa a total of nine or ten times; we'll see how the TNF compares in a few years. 

The first rule of bush driving . . .

 . . . no matter if it's in Africa, South America, or Australia, is, you never, ever drive at night.

The second rule is, you always wind up driving at night. It's happened to us more than we care to admit, both through our own misjudgment or rushed scheduling and through circumstances we couldn't control (those bandits in Loliondo come to mind . . .). 

We just experienced the, er, former situation on our way from Port Augusta, on the southern coast of Australia, to Alice Springs, in the Northern Territory. The Stuart Highway is a good, fast (110 kph) road, but driving it in the daytime reveals the extent of the Kangaroo Karnage that goes on at night, when they are most active. And we had three hours of at-the-limit full-dark driving to do to get where we "needed" to go. It was a nerve-wracking drive with the ever-present risk of a large marsupial bounding across in front of us, and I especially don't imagine one wants to hit a kangaroo at the apogee of a jump.

Fortunately we had installed a pair of ARB Intensity AR21 LED driving lamps prior to the journey.

In the past I'd been wary of LED driving lamps, having tried too many that exhibited annoying color fringing or too-high color temperature, or spotty pattern. Not these—they displayed zero fringing, and the pattern, despite being the "spot" version, created a perfectly even flood of daylight far down the road and well onto the verge. This was not the typical UV scattering that fools one into thinking an LED light pattern is better than it is; it was genuine illumination, and my blood pressure stayed 20 points lower than it would have been without them. (The only downside, which is true with any driving lamp, is that when you flick them off for oncoming traffic it appears your vehicle's standard headlamps are now powered by votive candles.) 

The Intensity AR21 lamps are without doubt the best driving lamps I've used, eclipsing previous benchmarks such as the 130-watt IPFs on my FJ40, and even the legendary rally standard from decades ago, the Cibié Super Oscar. And the icing on the cake, of course, is that LEDs draw far less power than halogen lamps or even HIDs. I'll be installing them (or the even larger and brighter Intensity AR32s) on every 4x4 vehicle we own.

I'm tempted to say screw the aesthetics and bolt a set on the 911 . . .

Your very own Troopy? (Or Hilux, or . . .)

What is the best expedition vehicle in the world?

Of course there isn’t one.

“Best” as applied to an expedition vehicle means different things to different people, and can vary even then in different situations with different logistical requirements. And any vehicle one might name out of “the usual suspects” will have strengths that might suit one situation along with weaknesses that might not suit the same situation. The Jeep Wrangler Rubicon Unlimited, for example, combines unmatched technical-terrain performance with a poorly laid-out and small cargo area and low GVWR. The venerable (and no longer made) Land Rover Defender 110 combines an excellent layout and capacity for cargo, an economical turbodiesel engine, and all-coil-spring ride comfort with outdated and cramped driver and passenger accommodations and a history of bipolar build quality. The Mercedes G-Wagen (the diesel-powered world-market version) combines mightily overengineered running gear, excellent traction, and a high GVWR with a fearsomely high price and potentially overcomplex electronics. 

Then there’s the 70-series Land Cruiser Troop Carrier, or Troopy as it’s known. Arguably the most primitive of the bunch—the only one still riding on leaf rear springs—its reputation hinges more than anything else on unmatched reliability and durability. Tens of thousands of them have shrugged off tens of millions of miles of abuse from safari guides and non-government agencies, hammering on faithfully regardless. Years ago Roseann and I, through the auspices of a crooked fixer, led a safari in remotest Tanzania in a wreck of an early (all-leaf-spring) example. It had layers of flaked tan repaint on it; the ancient 103-horsepower 2H diesel engine wheezed and blew Vesuvius-sized clouds of smoke; there were no seals left on any opening and bulldust choked the interior to the point of actually reducing visibility for the driver; the alternator died during a night drive out of potential bandit country in Loliondo and we had to light our way with a flashlight. We loathed that vehicle by the end of the trip—yet it just kept running the entire time, and for all I know still is. Many thousands of miles in much nicer examples have reinforced our admiration for the Troopy—especially those powered by the later (post-1990) 1HZ naturally-aspirated six-cylinder diesel. This has proved such a dependable workhorse that it is still in production 25 years later despite the advent of the much more sophisticated and powerful twin-turbo V8 diesel. The 1HZ is reserved for markets such as Africa where power is less desirable than simplicity. 

But reliability isn’t the only strength of the Troopy. Open the 60/40 split rear door and you are greeted with a cargo bay large enough to return echoes. It is literally cavernous, and the Troopy’s GVWR rating matches it. You could stash enough actual troops and armaments back here to engineer a coup d’état (and it’s probably been done . . .). For mere safari duty there’s room for all the gear you could possibly need for an extended stay away from supplies. And speaking of capacity, many if not most Troopies are equipped from the factory with dual fuel tanks totalling an astounding 47 gallons.

The driver and passenger seating area is spacious and visibility all around is commanding. Seating is comfortable if you get the individual buckets, not quite so good for the passenger with the split bucket/bench. Power-assisted steering and brakes make driving the beast easier than it would seem, and once loaded with guerrillas, AK47s, and RPG-7s the ride is really not bad at all. Finally, a comprehensive selection of bits to augment the strengths and correct the weaknesses of the Troopy is available from high-quality suppliers such as ARB and Old Man Emu.

For those of us in the U.S. there was just one problem: The 70-series Troopy was never imported here, nor was any Toyota with the 1HZ engine. However, notice the date the engine was introduced—1990. That puts Troopies (and the companion pickup configuration) equipped with the 1HZ inside the envelope of the 25-year exemption for importing vehicles to this country. 

This was uppermost in our minds as we recently began planning a trip to Australia, where the 70-series Troopy is practially the official national vehicle for any travel off tarmac. Looking at ads on such sites as Gumtree brought up a good selection of vehicles, although many of them had obviously seen a lot of miles in the bush. Also, somewhat counterintuitively given Australia’s huge inland desert, rust is an issue—about 99.9 percent of the country’s population lives along the coast, and beach driving and saltwater fishing are popular pastimes. Prices for early 90’s Troopies ranged from around $5,000 (AUS) for dodgy runners up to $25,000 for pristine examples. Given the current favorable exchange rate (1$ AUS = $.75 US) this left a fair number of possibilities.

With some diligence and luck we found an extremely clean, low-mileage, one-owner 1993 model listed for sale at a dealer in Darwin, and after a few emails back and forth to confirm details, it was ours.

Given its slightly later manufacture date, we’ll have to wait a couple years to import it, but we have plans for the interim . . .

Meanwhile our friends Graham Jackson (director of training for the Overland Expo) and his wife, Connie, searched for and found their own Troopy, with higher miles than ours but equipped with dual locking differentials and a drawer system. Both vehicles are now on their way to the Expedition Centre in Sydney, where owner Daniel will be installing a few modifications before we arrive. Then we are off to the Simpson Desert for a solid shakedown run.

If you’re interested in importing a vehicle directly to the U.S. and having most of the work done for you, look at AustoUSA.com. Phil Newell there is experienced in the entire export/import process. Of course Troopies are not the only potentials for one’s own version of the “best” expedition vehicle. There are plenty of Hiluxes, Prados, and Land Rovers available as well, including many that were purchased by visitors, fully kitted with roof tents, fridges, etc., taken on a trip, and then ut up for sale when the owners returned home. This opens the possibility of landing in Australia and picking up a fully prepared vehicle for your own journey for about what it would cost to rent one from the many outfitters there. The AustoUSA site lists all the costs to have a vehicle delivered to the U.S., including shipping, customs, etc. There is literally a “click to purchase” button.

Tempted?

Origami camping

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I’ve written before about Montague folding bicycles (here). We’ve had one for seven years now and, while it’s far from the most highly specced mountain bike you can buy for the price, its ability to fold into a compact package, yet ride like a “normal” rigid-framed bike is unparalleled. 

There was just one problem—we only had one of them. And the effortless way it fit behind the front seats of our 2012 Tacoma Extracab made us think that two of them might actually be able to ride there.

Theory confirmed. We recently bought an example of the current Montague Paratrooper Pro, which boasts several improvements over our original. Most notable is a clever rear rack that pivots completely under the rear wheel to serve as a stand when folding or even working on the bike (although it’s not really stable enough to be a parking stand). The Pro also now has fenders, a very worthwhile addition, and a rear disc brake instead of the cantilevers of the old model. This is a questionable asset; I’ve noted before that I’ve yet to use a mechanical disc brake that works as well as a good cantilever. This one is no exception, but it’s what buyers expect.

And both bikes snuggle securely into the Extracab space behind us—noting, please, that we are both in the 5’7” to 5’9” range heightwise, so I cannot guarantee that you six-footers will have the same luck. We put the front wheels into a case inside the Four Wheel Camper, which makes the process much easier. 

Now we have two bicycles that ride securely inside the truck, no intrusive (and expensive) hitch mount needed, vastly reduced danger of theft, and no worrying about reduced departure angle or dust-coated bikes after 20 miles of dirt road.

Along with our pop-top Four Wheel Camper, and our recently acquired Klepper folding kayak, we've assembled quite the origami recreational kit.