Rubithon Trip Report '96
Date: Mon, 19 Aug 1996 03:23:52 -0700
From: Rob Mullen
Subject: Rubithon Trip Report (Reel 1/2)
To: offroad@off-road.com
TRIP: Rubithon '96
DATES: June 20-23 1996 (Really?!)
Dramatis Personae Canuck:
Rob Mullen (That's me!) 1980 BJ40 fr Auburn, rr ARB, OME springs, 235/85R16s
Co Pilot: Alf (sans BJ70)
Rob Milsen (Not to be confused with me) 1980 BJ40, open, 31x10.5s
Steve: 1972 FJ40 (on '81 BJ42 frame)open, bizarro springs, 33x12.5s
Russel: 1972 FJ40, open, 4-pack 1/4" thick leaf springs, 235/85R16s
Brad: 1977(?) V8J40, open, 33x12.5s
Phil: 1978(?) V8J40, fr & ff ARBs, 35x12.5s
Gary: 1984 BJ42, open, 235/85R16s, hid at Danny's shop instead of coming
Before I actually launch into my trip report, I think some background is in
order (Just to establish my frame of mind at departure time)
I'd pretty much decided I wanted to do the Rubicon two years ago after
seeing coverage of the TLCA's Rubithon in the various 4x mags. That desire
was fueled when I met Phil Senger at a Coastal Cruisers meeting. Phil had
only recently joined us from Kelowna where he'd travelled to previous
Rubithons with Greg and the rest of the FabTech crazies. Phil had done a
reasonably high-grade video of last years event and after watching and
re-watching it, I decided that my truck should be up to the challenge
I also took advantage of a visit by Gary Bjork to the UFWDA convention in
Whistler B.C. to interrogate him about the trail in his "back yard" I asked
him how he felt my truck would fare with its 31" tires. He just sort of
shot me a sideways glance, smiled, and asked, "How do you feel about body
damage?" He added that 33s were about the minimum acceptable size to do the
trail "clean" in a 40. After being taken in a brief trail ride in my truck,
Gary further added that if I kept driving the truck in its current form, I'd
be prematurely old and insane.
At that time, my truck was built for one purpose only-to get me from "A" to
"B" I'd put everything into the driveline and nothing into driver comfort.
When I'd removed the old tub, the body mounts were rusted solid so they'd
been replaced with nice, unyeilding hockey pucks (only single height) I had
Rancho 7-leaf springs of magic tooth removal and RS5000 shocks. My exhaust
was the 2-1/4" pipes with the Walker Turbo Advantage which served to reduce
my diesel exhaust noise to about that of a hog with open pipes.
It seemed I had a ways to go in the comfort department. The springs and
shocks were the first to go, replaced with Old Man Emu. The body mounts
were replaced with pliant polyurethane.
As for the exhaust, I opted for an enormous Borla Silverado can. I wanted
to run my regular steel pipes for Rubithon because I figured they'd get
stoved in, so I just hack-sawed out the old muffler and popped in my Borla
in its place. The muffler wound up sitting about 2" lower and 3" further
back from the rear shock-mount crossmember than I would have liked but I
thought it would be adequately protected by the springs. Boy was I wrong.
Flash forward to two weeks before departure time. My 16" Mangels wheels had
arrived and were waiting for rubber. I then made a decision I would regret
for the remainder of the trip (an probably for quite a while to come) I
didn't think my BJ40 had the power or gearing to be able to spin a set of
255/85R16s (33.3x10.5) so I opted for the next size down, 235/85R16s (32x9.3)
To ensure the best possible fuel economy for the long drive, I changed all
my filters, my oil, and had my injectors rebuilt. Once I had the injectors
installed, I was shocked to discover that my truck now accelerated BETTER
with the 235/85s than with the old 31s. My injectors were pretty bagged.
My top "COMFORTABLE" cruising speed also increased to about 115km/h (~70MPH)
The Borla exhaust quieted the truck down to the point that the main highway
noise was the whine of the 3 speed transfer case. I'd planned to put some
Dynamat or similar damping material around the tranny tunnel, but that was
just not in the cards.
I was planning to spend the Saturday before departure repacking all my
wheelbearings and hubs with synthetic grease, changing the gear oil in my
rear pumpkin and re-doing the gasket of my rear 3rd member (I had a little
80w90 synthetic seepage I wanted to get rid of) Well, on distraction led to
another and I didn't wind up leaving the shop until daylight Sunday. I got
home and crashed at about 6am. At 10am received the first of what seemed to
be an hourly string of phone calls from various people in Vancouver and
California. I finally gave up on sleeping at around 12am and began packing.
The plan was to leave Vancouver at 6pm. I arrived at my co-pilot Alf's
place at 6:30, not too far behind schedule.
There was still one TINY detail I had to attend to. I've been working for
months and months on a prototype of a special convertor box that would allow
me to run 12V 3-wire sealed "dumptruck" brakelights with my 24V 4-wire
electrical system. The box was all assembled and just needed to be wired
into the truck. I hadn't hooked it up previously because I didn't have
enough butt-connectors on hand. I'd phoned ahead to Alf and asked him to
pick up some butt-connectors so I could complete the installation at his
place. Unfortunately, he THOUGHT I was looking for spade connectors and
although the local hardware store had plenty of BUTT connectors, it had no
SPADE connectors so Alf had come home empty handed. I hastily began wiring
the convertor box in with whatever connectors I could find (Marrot's are
fine for automotive applications, right?! ;) I first wired up the brake
because I figured they were the most critical and also easiest to test. I
got Alf to press the pedal for me.
NOTHING!
ARGH!
PANIC MODE ONE!
In my sleep-deprived state, it didn't occur to me that the damn box needed
to have the turn signal wires connected in order to be able to switch ground
correctly and turn on the brake lights.
A new plan was hatched. We drove to quickly to the shop (sans any kind of
signal lights) and inspected all the trucks to see which had a set of brake
lights that were in poor enough shape to not be saleable but would get us to
California and back. I finally settled on the housings from a '77 FJ40 and
the cracked lenses and 24V bulbs off a '81 BJ42. It would have been nice to
use the housings from the BJ42, but they were so badly rusted that several
sockets wouldn't accept bulbs. I quickly discovered that sometime between
'77 and '80 Toyota had changed the connector for the tail lights to include
a separate ground wire instead of just grounding everything through the
housing to the frame. I had to cut the wiring harness out of the '77 FJ and
try to splice it into my truck's harness. Just to add some more fun,
somebody had already been moneying around with the FJ's harness and the
passenger's side connector had been replaced with a collection of female
spade connectors. Once the harness was spliced into mine, I had to play
musical connectors until I figured out what each spade connector was
supposed to do. When all was hooked up, I had managed to get the following
to work:
Left tail light (at brake light intensity)
Right brake light
Left turn signal
By then it was 10pm. We were WAY behind schedule. It would have to do.
At around 10:45, we crossed the border into the United States. Just south
of Bellingham, WA we pulled into a rest stop. There were some happy church
people giving out free drinks and goodies and since they were about ready to
go home, they wouldn't let us leave until we'd liberated all their Rice
Crispie Squares. In a sugar induced vibrating frenzy, we headed on. After
we passed through Seattle, I noticed that the truck was feeling quite
unstable and wasn't tracking straight overly well. Alf and I decided that
it must be because I had my load-range E tires pumped up to 45psi for
minimum rolling resistange. We aired them down to 30 and continued on. The
truck was much happier although it wasn't perfect. We couldn't figure out
what was wrong until a car passed us. It's headlights shone on a rather
unique rut pattern in the slow lane where we were travelling. Because the
slow lane traffic consisted mostly of semis, there were 4 ruts in the lane!
The dual tires of the semis were responsible. Unfortunately, my track width
placed me with one set of tires in the rut and the other riding on the small
centre ridge beween the dualies. The truck couldn't decide which sets of
ruts it preffered and would wander between them.
Just as the sky started to lighten, we crossed the Columbia river and
entered Portland Oregon. Home of lower speed limites (65 vs. the 70 in
Washington) but no sales tax. Shortly after Portland, I reached my driving
limit. I grabbed the nearest exit and started looking for a place to crash.
I found a gravel pit that looked like as good a spot as any. I shut off the
truck and immediately fell asleep. I awoke to the sound of men's voices and
trucks pulling into our pit. I looked around to see a bunch of
Chev-driving, Coffee drinking locals regarding us suspiciously. I quickly
fired the truck up and left the pit. By now the sun had almost completely
risen and I could see the cooling towers of the nuclear power plant that was
our neighbour for the night. Made a mental note to eat more iodized salt.
I'd been asleep for several hours and felt much better. I still wanted to
try to make it to Albany (home of Ross & Land Cruiser Advanced Handling) in
the hopes he would let some uninvited guests crash in his parking lot. We
reached Albany at about 7:00. LCAH was off a major road in the middle of
what seemed like and automotive service "park" This was no place to try and
sleep. We continued on. About 15 miles further down I-5, we decided to
stop at a rest stop. We threw down the groundsheet on the grass in front of
the truck, unrolled out matresses and went to sleep. Several hours later,
we awoke, packed up, and headed on our way.
We had breakfast in Goshen at their truck stop. It was a great place, where
guys with their names on the belt buckles passed the time debating the
merits of various pieces of Cat equipment (bigger was ALWAYS better) and
told everyone who would listen that salt in the coffee maker would get rid
of the bitterness and would result in the bunkhouse draining a 2-gallon pot
"in MINUTES!"
Somewhere in the south of Oregon, we made an amusing fuel stop. We pulled
up to the truck island and asked the attendant to fill it up with diesel
(self-serve is illegal in Oregon--a make work project?) The attendant
commented that he'd never seen a "dey-SSUL" Land Cruiser before and started
whistling "She's So Unusual" to himself. Just then, his partner came
running out of the quickie-mart with a terrified "What the heck are you
doing, putting dey-SSUL into a Land Cruiser!?" look in his eyes. He
casually asked his partner, "Are you SURE you should be putting dey-SSUL
into that thing?" Our attendant responded, "That's what the man said" and
continued our fill-up. This was the first of many gas station attendants we
were going to confuse.
After what seemed like an eternity, we reached a sign announging the
Kalifornia border check point. I knew that Californians are leary of
outside fruit (too many fruitcakes already in state?) and I happened to have
3 apples in my cooler. Alf and I briefly debated wether disposing of our
bio-degradable cargo was littering and decided that it would be best to eat
the apples. When we stopped at the border post, the woman asked if we had
any fruit. With a mouth full of contraband I sprayed "Not if you let us
dump these cores" She looked at the apple cores and informed us that
Kalifornia doesn't mind COMMERCIAL fruit just homegrown. We didn't have any
'BC Hydro' with us so we continued merrily on our way.
I should mention that up until this point we had been travelling with NO
navigational aids. We figured we'd drive straight down I5 until we hit
Sacramento, then hang a left. At the border we were supplied with a free
"Welcome to Kalifornia" booklet that included a map. Well, that destroyed
our game of trying to psychicly guess the name of the next town we'd pass
through but it meant that we could deviate from our original route. By this
point, we were tired of the "napalm and pave it!" infinite-lane monotony of
the I-5 so we decided to switch to the somewhat-parallel highway 99 at Red
Bluff. That was a great decision. We were now driving on a nice two-lane
road shaded by orchards.
Things got VERY interesting when we reached Auburn. We have some winding
roads here in B.C. but I have NEVER seen anything as insane as that road
|from Auburn to Placerville. 10MPH recommended corner speeds on an
otherwise-55MPH highway! I'd like to meet the Civil Engineer who decided
that the highway should follow the old game path and kick him in the shin.
To further complicate things, it was now dark. I now know that 16" rims
make for nice cornering tires. I am also VERY thankful for four-wheel disc
brakes. We only missed ONE corner (pretty good, considering how many
corners there were ;) Before we knew it, we were spat out at a gas station
in Placerville. It was now 10:00pm Monday night. We had made it! It had
taken us exactly 24 hours and we'd had about 4 hours sleep. Must find
somewhere to lie down.
We asked the nice gas station attendant if she could show us how to get to
Gary Bjork's house on a map. Unfortunately, the maps she had claimed that
Gary's road did not exist. We decided that we'd be selfish and risk waking
up Gary's household. A call as placed and we learned we were only 4 blocks
|from Gary's house! Happy days.
We were greeted by Gary on the road outside his house. We chatted for a
bit, set up our sleeping bags, and passed out. The next several days before
Rubithon are a blur and even more non-offroad related than what's preceded
this so I'll gloss over them. Some highlights included meeting James
Lafemina who flew in from New York, meeting Danny Warden and checking out
his shop and parts stockpiles, and finally, meeting Jack Alford and Jay
Kopycinski.
All too soon, it was Wednesday night and time to go to the Loon Lake chalet
to stage for our run--the Thursday am straight-through to Rubicon Springs.
We arrived in darkness and were greeted by an impressive collection of
Cruisers. We were definitely playing with the big boys. Every Canadian
truck but one had tires that were 33s or under. The trucks here were just
the opposite.
We wandered around in amazement for a while before finally heading to the
chalet to bunk down. Alf and I found a nice open spot in the floor and set
up our sleeping bags. I was so tired I slept like a log, but apparently
there was quite the interesting symphony of snoring and bodily functions
that played through the night.
I awoke on Thursday morning the moment the first ray of sunshine hit the
window of the chalet. I hopped out of bed and wandered outside. After
doing my bit to keep the forest fire hazard down, I took another look at the
other trucks in the parking lot. They were even more impressive by
daylight. I wondered what the day would hold for me.
When I re-entered the cabin, people were beginning to stir. Alf and I
stuffed our gear into our Action Packers and headed outside to search for
breakfast. No sooner had we located the milk and Corn Flakes, Danny was
sounding his horn and moving out of the parking lot. That was our first
indication of the hectic pace of our day.
We dumped the food back into the truck and joined the convoy. From high
atop a dirt escarpment, we could see the check-in area for the trail.
Through the use of suprise, fear, and ruthless efficiency, Kara Patston had
us inspected, signed in, and ready to roll in record time. It did take a
suprisingly long time for anybody to notice that our "safety inspection
pass" stickers actually read "Boneless Pork for CHOP SUEY!"
I locked in my hubs and aired my tires down to 15psi all around. Danny held
a short drivers meeting and we were off. By now it was probably around
8:00. By 8:02 I was having difficulty ;) There was a small v-trench in the
rock that was slightly narrower than my Cruiser. I got part way through it
before my rocker kissed rock. I ground to a halt and was quickly surrounded
by a spotting committee. They offered me a range of potential routes and I
managed to wiggle around a bit and get out without any further damage.
After winding our way through the forest for a while, we came upon the next
obstacle.
There will be a short intermission while Rob takes time out to replace the
u-seal in his ARB--more on this later.
During the intermission why not visit our ORD snackbar? You can have
anything you want, as long as it's a banana!
____________________________________________________________________
Rob Mullen RAMullen@wimsey.com North Vancouver, B.C. Canada |
Editor of the TLC FAQ TLCA #3036, Coastal Cruisers |
'80 Toyota BJ40 Diesel Land Cruiser Why walk?...When you can CRAWL!|
'83 Toyota BJ60 Land Cruiser Wagon TLC Offroad (604)299-5600 |
------------------------------
Date: Mon, 19 Aug 1996 03:23:57 -0700
From: Rob Mullen
Subject: Rubithon Trip Report (Reel 2/2)
To: offroad@off-road.com
Dim the lights, it's time for reel two!
When we last saw our hero, he had sustained a minor ding to the rocker panel
and was confronted by the next challenge in the trail. It was a simple
right-angle turn to the right, followed by a couple of smallish rocks. The
alternate route was through a small puddle, and up a 2' rock ledge. I took
the former route without much difficulty as did most in the group. For some
reason, Russel decided he wanted to take the second route. After several
attempts at tenderizing the rock with a leaf spring, he backed up and took
the road more travelled. Our group paused for a moment to get bunched back
up before heading off to the slab.
We exited the trees and ventured out onto the moonscape. It was the
strangest geologic formation I've ever seen, as if some great unseen hands
had seen fit to take a solid chunk of granite and knead it like bread dough.
The solid expanse of rock was broken only by cracks in the surface. Before
I knew what had happened, the trucks in front of me had opened up their
four-barrels and were gone. I continued down into the bowl at a leisurely
pace, but apparently not leisurely enough. As I dropped off a 1' ledge,
there was a large bang and a scrape. I figured I'd only ground a little off
my springs and trailer hitch bracket and continued merrily on my way. When
it came time to ascend out of the bowl, I ran into a little difficulty. I
had no idea which way the trucks in front of me had gone. I believe John
Pardi's wife (her name escapes me) had gotten out to walk this section. She
pointed me in the right direction, but I still spent some time traversing
the side of the bowl trying to find a good line.
When we were once again on a clearly defined trail in the trees, I caught
back up with the group. Steve was driving behind me and said that I might
want to check out the rear of my truck. Sure enough, on my impact entering
the bowl, the trail had locked on to the shiniest part of my truck and
whacked it real good. My once perfect stainless Borla muffler no longer
posessed its perfect cylindrical shape. It now looked kind of like a beer
can after a frat party. At least it doesn't have baffles so flow was only
minimally impeded--my exhaust was just slightly higher pitched..
After wading through some mud bogs, we emerged at what used to be Walker
Rock. Even though I'd seen footage of it in one of my prepatory Rubithon
videos, I didn't recognise it at the time. The winter's erosion had changed
the trail to the point that nobody lifted a tire. It was at this point that
my Air Locker started to act up. I would hit the push-button, only to have
the compressor cycle continuously. I could hear the hiss of pressurized air
coming from my rear diff breather tube that terminated directly in front of
me on the firewall. If I cycled it quickly, I could sometimes get it to
catch.
A short scramble up a rocky hillside later, we caught up with the camp
committee group. Apparently someone had broken a pinion. They had parked
next to a large trench to fix it. At the end of the trench, there was an
essentially vertical 4' wall. Fortunately, there was a slighly off-camber
route around the trench. The Canadian low-riders all took this (sane)
route, but the Californian big boys wouldn't back down from a challenge.
One by one, they waded into the trench. One by one, they came to a dead stop
at the end of the trench with their bumpers pushing into the wall, tires
enlarging the hole. One by one, they were forced to admit defeat and back
out. Several drivers decided that they wouldn't back all the way to the
"bypass" and tried to climb the side of the trench. This led to some
spectacular tires in the air photo-ops but no tested roll cages.
We determined that the camp committee was in good shape and continued along
the trail. Finally, word came over the radio that we were at the Little
sluice and those that wanted a challenge should go right, while all others
should go left. By this point, I felt that I'd sustained more than my fair
share of body damage and should take the bypass. The sealing of my Air
Locker was also getting worse.
I put my tail between my legs and pulled a quick left turn. 1/3 of the way
into the bypass, I had the first of two interesting bypass experiences. I
was climbing a very steep little hill between two trees that were only about
12" wider than my Cruiser. I had the truck rattling along at 600RPM or so
when it finally completely bogged out and stalled. Before I could pop the
clutch in, the truck bounced backwards a little down the slope, and the
engine fired back up. Something was not right though. The engine was
missing and smoke was pouring out from under my hood. I VERY quickly
flicked the switch to off and pulled the emergency brake. A host of diesel
failure scenarios played in my head. Ruptured fuel pipe? Blown injection
pump? Unheard of. Unfortunately, I was hugging the driver's side tree so I
couldn't open my door. I clambered over to the passenger side and ran to
the front of the truck. Looking under the truck, I couldn't see any
evidence of dead dinosaurs hemorrhaging from my engine. Confused, I climbed
back into my seat and started the truck again. It ran fine. Confused but
thankful, I continued on my way. I would later discover what had happened.
About 2/3 of the way through the bypass I encountered another hill. I let
the truck idle slowly up it. Engine speed became slower, and slower, and
finally stopped. I thought to myself, "Damn, I guess the altitude and
bigger tires have bumped my minimum RPM up..." BANG! chug, chug, rattle
rattle rattle. The engine picked back up after its little breather and
continued along the trail. I was amazed that it had come back from
essentially flatlining all on its own.
As soon as I reached the end of the bypass, I hopped out of my truck and ran
back along to watch the others come through Little Sluice. I missed the
first truck, a big red Californian machine, who's owner I don't recall.
Next up was Joe in his "Purple Flame Special." Apparently, this was the
first voyage of the freshly re-painted truck through the Little Sluice.
With a bit of careful manoeuvering, Joe was able to navigate the obstacle
with his gleaming paint intact (although I believe he put a small scratch in
his crome bumper, much to his dismay) Next up was the lone Canadian through
Little Sluice, Phil. The excitement of the trail proved to be too much for
Phil--his hose blew off prematurely. After the air line was re-attached to
the compressor (what were YOU thinking?) Phil locked in his diffs and headed
in. He followed the usual right-left-right-up line without a great deal of
difficulty. Phil was pleased--his truck had accomplished what he built it
to do.
After one Cruiser hauled a trailer through (against everybody's advice) it
was time for Rick, aka "Crazo." Rick decided that he was going to have to
do something impressive to better Joe's performance so he told everybody
that he was going to stay to the right the whole way. Unfortunately, just
then the photographer for the infamous rotated picture magazine ran out of
film. Of course, we all had to wait while he ran 200' up the trail to the
truck his stock was stashed in. The delay only served to build up the event
further. Finally, Rick fired up his mean green machine and started up the
rock face that sloped sharply up from the Little Sluice. His front right
tire climbed easily along until suddenly, his left rear tire fell into a
hole. His front tire right tire was catapulted 4' skywards. He ground to a
halt.
The question was asked, "So Rick, can you go forwards?"
"Noope"
"Can you go back?"
"Noope...Better get me a cable!"
Cameras clicked and whirred furiously as Rick balanced precariously on the
rock. At that moment, his truck was re-christened. For that time on, it
was known as "Green Eggs & The Ham" After everyone had taken an opportunity
to point and laugh and all the film had been exhausted, it came time to help
Rick out. It took a healthy heaping of Canadian beef on Rick's front bumper
to save his American bacon. When the fifth Canuck had piled on, the balance
was broken, and both Crazo's front tires were again on rock. Eager to
escape, he hit the throttle, sending his ballast diving for cover. Because
of his strange route, Rick came dangerously to marring his beautiful Porsche
Signal Green quarter panel on the largest rock in the sluice, but the goDs
favour a fool and he emerged unscathed. After a few more trucks had bumped
and ground their way through we continued on our way.
It had been decided that "the Canadian low-riders" would not fare well on
Old Sluice as winter had left it in a very untidy state. As a result, we
took the slab to Buck Island Resevoir. When we ventured out onto the
granite, I was following an FJ40 from Indiana that was essentially stock
except for 31s. By this time, my Air Locker was refusing to seal so my only
advantage over him was my LSD. (He couldn't see the colours like I could,
MAN) We crept through all the strange off camber sections without too much
trouble, but as we moved up over a small ridge he decided to take a
different line from the Californians that had preceded him. I figured his
line was better suited for me because the other option featured some
32-unfriendly rocks. We took a sharp right turn and came across a strange
formation in the rock. It was 9" high step, not much wider than a Cruiser
in the shape of a "V" with the base of the "V" pointing towards us. He took
it to the extreme right and bumped up with only a little momentum required.
I tried to go more left to get my tires on the shelf a little sooner so as
to not grind my pumpkins. My front tires climbed up the shelf easily
enough, but when my back tires hit the face of the shelf, they spun
uselessly. I gave the truck a little more throttle to try and pop it up
over the shelf. All this succeeded in doing was hopping my rear end around
so that I was almost perpendicular to the left face of the "V" NOW my
pumpkin was nicely hung up on the rock. I tried to back up and change my
line, but my back end was now hanging off a steep drop-off. I wiggled
around some more, but that only made matters worse. The occupants of the
truck behind me hopped out to appraise the situation. It was deemed that
rock piling was my only way out.
I began to have serious doubts about my fitness to operate a Land Cruiser.
How was it that I had proven unable to follow that stock truck?! With a few
rocks under the wheels, I was able to continue, but my mood was gloomy as we
pulled up to the Buck Island Resevoir for lunch break.
We quickly ate lunch, and Danny moved us out. Right by the lake, I got
crossed up while climbing up a slight incline with a v-trench. I came to a
dead stop, tires spinning uselessly. I tried to back up. Tires still spun.
Then it dawned on me. I didn't think my front tires were moving. I had Alf
look at the passenger's side tire, as I watched to driver's side. When I
pressed the throttle, nothing happened. Alf jumped out to check the hubs.
Sure enough, that sneaky granite had managed to turn the dial of my
passenger's side hub and disengage it! I'd been driving a 4x1. No wonder
my front end hadn't pulled me up over that "V." With 4x3 operation restored,
I easily pulled off the rock and continued along the trail.
I passed easily over the next couple of obstacles although they caused the
Indiana Cruiser (now behind me) some grief. I gave him some guidance
through one small "V", but thanks to an inopportune application of throttle
he still mashed his rockers (a little more)
Moments later, the trucks bunched up as we neared the top of the Big Sluice.
I started down the initial loose section, happily engine braking. My right
foot stabbed for the brake pedal as I saw what lay ahead though. The
corner in Big Sluice had been eroded to the point that there was now
approximately a 2' drop off that had to be taken while negotiating the
corner. I slowly eased over it, thankful for the easy modulation of the 4
wheel discs. I gritted my teeth for the sound of aluminum rockers sliding
over rock, but it never came. My exhaust was also mercifully spared from
any further pounding. Big Sluice was also much worse than I'd seen in the
video. I took my time on the descent and was pleased when I neared the
bottom without any substantial scraping. I simply had to traverse one
slightly off-camber section and was once again on flat ground.
After some more uneventful winding through flat ground, I crossed the truss
bridge and approached the springs. I had done it--made it to the springs
with only superficial damage.
What followed in the next three days was a wild orgy of Cruiser excess. 150
40s, 45s, 55s, 60s, mini trucks--all different colours, shapes and sizes. I
managed to meet a fair number of list members, but I didn't find several key
ones.
One memorable moment was produced by a group of idiots who came into camp
one night. They slowly circled repeatedly through the camp with their
country music blaring at full volume. Apparently, the same group does this
every year in an attempt to cause trouble. One of the more amusing
exchanges was between a passenger in one of the trucks and our friend Steve.
It seems the passenger was hassling 6'3" Steve about the "miner's lamp" he
was wearing on his shaved head. Although I didn't witness the event, it
will be passed into lore as follows:
Idiot: Hey, why're ya wearing that light on yer head?
Steve: Because I've never seen a redneck BLEED before.
Idiot:
These "gentlemen" were escorted through camp only to produce another
highlight. One of the idiots rolled his flat fender right in camp, dumping
his improperly secured cooler everywhere.
Another "Kodak Moment(tm)" was produced by Russell. He had been telling
Rick all week-end that he wanted him to place one of his 38" Swampers on
Russell's 4x4" square tube bumper. Finally, Rick decided to oblige him.
Rick Pewe saw a good photo in the making and sauntered to capture the
moment. Well, once there was a chance of national magazine exposure, there
was no chance of Joe and his purple flame machine being left out of the
action. He wanted to climb up onto Rick's other front tire. A few attempts
were made which only resulted in Rick and Joe exchanging a little fender
paint. It was then decided that Rick's 38s would have a much easier time
climbing up on Joe's 35s than vice versa. Joe popped his truck up on
Russel's front bumper and Rick easily climbed up onto Joe's tire. A large
pintle hook was inserted into Russell's rear receiver so that a passing mini
truck could climb up on Russell's rear bumper. The end result was an
amazing piece of kinetic Land Cruiser art.
On the Saturday night, we were fed by the TLCA (Or specificly Toys on the
Rocks) I went back for seconds, thirds... For people from the land of the
18oz steak and the creators of the "All-You-Can-Eat Buffet" the yanks didn't
seem to eat very much, especially as it was FREE with their trail
registration. They were giving away food to augment the already impressive
raffle prizes. The only Canadian to win a raffle prize was Steve who won a
book of tickets to the BIG TLCA mini-truck raffle. The Marauders-sponsered
open bar followed. Unfortunately I allowed my appetite for free alcohol to
eclipse my dinner time appetite. The last thing I remember is being handed
a bottle of Jack and tipping it to my lips. Was momentarily distracted,
only to realize that I'd continued to drain the bottle...fade to black
I was awakened what I thought to be early the next morning to discover
people packing my stuff for me. As I sat up to thank them, the horror of
what I'd done the night before hit me like a 5lb sledge to the
head--literally. I lay back down for a few minutes before crawling out of
the tent. Thanks to my little helpers, we were ready to head out at 11:00
or so. We drove out of camp, STRAIGHT into rush-hour traffic. Trucks were
backed up all the way down Cadillac hill to the creek crossing. I just
managed to get across the creek before we stopped. I clambered out of the
truck and went back to the creek to try to divert as much of its flow as
possible through my body. I felt like DEATH.
Eventually, the trucks further up the line started to move and I fired my
truck back up. I made a testing stab at my air locker button and it held!
I decided I'd leave it on for the remainder of the hill so as to not risk
having it refuse to seal when I needed it most. The trucks inched slowly up
the hill. Soon we encountered the cause of the back-up. A truck from
Washington had blown out the rear pinion of its Dana 60 on the trip in.
Another truck had graciously offered a tow only to blow its pinion as well,
right at what was probably the trickiest (albeit not overly difficult) part
of Cadillac Hill--where it makes a sharp curve to the right followed by a
series of small boulders. The Washington truck had been pushed back into
the corner to get it out of the way. The tow truck had been winched off to
the side of the trail and the driver and passenger were trying desparately
to replace the third member with the rear of the truck precariously
supported on two hi-lift jacks. With full traction, I easily manouevered
around the broken down trucks.
About half way up the hill, I came to the only other mildly challenging
obstacle. It was a rock face with a series of cracks in it. Rick Pewe of
Petersen's was standing at the top of the face taking pictures of the trucks
as they came up. I didn't give him anything to shoot--just moseyed easily
up to the top. I continued a little ways further up the trail before I
realized that Russell was no longer behind me. I tried to radio him, but
when I got no response, I hopped out of the truck and ran back to see what
had happened. Russell's truck was parked safely at the top of the rock
face. It was Rob who was having trouble negotiating it. He'd gotten stuck
and had been forced to pause to pick a new line. Unfortunately, he put the
truck into reverse and forgot about it. When he'd turned the wheels to take
the line he wanted, he stepped on the throttle only to go bouncing backwards
down the hill. The truck came to rest behind a series of large rocks on the
downhill side of the road and try as he might, Rob couldn't climb over him.
The truck that Rick had been riding in, a large yellow truck from Washington
quickly turned around and prepared to winch Rob over the rocks. A couple of
pulls proved more successful at pulling the yellow truck DOWN the hill than
Rob UP the hill so a brief pause was taken to pile some rocks. The yellow
truck tried to give Rob a little slack line so that rocks could be piled in
front of him, but as rob rolled backwards, there was a large rush of air.
Much to our dismay, Rob wasn't being flatulant, his right rear tire was. As
he had backed up, his exhaust had been twisted by a rock such that the
tailpipe sliced through the sidewall of the tire. We were forced to try to
pull the same stunt as the tow truck down the hill and jack up the rear of
Rob's truck while it was suppored from rolling back with the winch cable.
The tire was replaced with the spare, and with the newly piled rocks, Rob
was winched easily up the hill.
At that point, Rick Pewe decided to ride in Russell's truck. He found the
black and blue zebra stripes and the Russell's fibreglass cap with no sides
fascinating. When we reached Observation Point, we broke out the food. I
was feeling almost human by now and scarfed down several sandwiches. No
sooner had we started to eat than we heard the sound of approaching country
music. It was the flat fender idiots. They lined up their trucks fender to
fender across the clearing essentially blocking our exit. They then
proceded to stumble around with the pretense of getting a group picture.
Various derogatory comments were muttered in their direction, including
questions about the relationship between their fathers and sisters/mothers
and how this was typical for idiot jeep-drivers. Rick Pewe (himself a flat
fender driver) was quick to point out that they weren't REAL jeepers, just
idiots. That made everyone feel a little better about the potential of
inter-manufacturer peace in our time.
We hurriedly packed up and skirted their convoy to put some distance between
ourselves and their damn music.
At that point, Brad offered to let Rick Pewe drive. I think Rick was
disappointed that the extra weight of the Cruiser compared to his
flat-fender prevented much air time. That didn't stop him from trying...
Russell's crazy co-pilot Alex had decided that he wanted to do some "rock
surfing" contrary to what certain magazines would have you believe, rock
surfing is not another term for rock crawling. Rock surfing is actually the
art of riding on the hard top of a vehicle that's travelling over rocks. DO
NOT TRY THIS AT HOME KIDS! This man is a professional trained maniac. As
luck would have it, Alex was trying to rock surf through what happened to be
the last little difficult section of road. He was almost thrown from the
top of the vehicle but managed to grab the front of the cap where it joins
the windshield.
In this same little semi-difficult section of trail, my motor started to
behave strangely as it had done on the little sluice bypass. I was chugging
along when one of my tires struck a rock that was too tall for it to climb
over. The truck bounced backwards, and started to run really rough again,
with smoke pouring from under the hood. I quickly popped the clutch in
while I tried to figure out what was wrong. I eased the clutch out and to
my suprise, even though I was in first, the truck started to chug BACKWARDS!
I'd knocked my motor into reverse-rotation! The smoke coming from under my
hood was exhaust exiting through my intake! I quickly killed the motor and
fired it up again. Sure enough, it ran perfectly now. I still don't fully
understand why the motor kept on running--I was overinjecting a little so I
may have had unburnt diesel-fuel mixture exiting through the exhaust valves.
When we finally reached Tahoma, we went looking for somewhere to eat.
Unfortunately, just as we pulled into the first restaurant's parking lot,
everybody left. We thought at first that it was the offensive smell of our
unwashed bodies, but much to our relief, it turned out that the restaurant
had lost power.
Every restaurant we passed was the same. We also noticed that there were NO
police ANYWHERE--even directing traffic at the power-less stop lights. It
was like we'd driven into an episode of Twilight Zone. We quickly learned
that there was a forset fire nearby and everyone was off worrying about
that. As we continued sough along Highway 50, we could see a wall of smoke
on a nearby ridge. We were thankfull to reach Placerville as dark fell.
We spent a couple of days lazing around Placerville. I fiddled with my
24V-12V tail-light convertor and finally managed to get it working. I would
have a full compliment of signal lights for the trip home.
|From Placerville, the Canadian Contingent went its separate ways. Gary
continued south to visit relatives in L.A. Russell and Rob wanted to travel
back via the coast highway. John Melnick went on to a successful carreer as
a professional drag racer. Brad and Phil stayed in Placerville for the
remainder of the week to work out some bugs in Phil's SM420 and transfer
case. Steve Tetu and I headed back for Canada on Tuesday morning.
The trip home was fairly uneventful. Steve broke a throttle cable at one
point, but we were able to quickly repair it with a piece of braided
stainless cable. Unforutnately, we only got as far as Vancouver, Washington
about 250mi south of our final destination before having to stop to sleep.
Purely by chance, we wound up staying in a little motel where Elvis had
stayed on his way to Seattle to film "It Happened at the World's Fair" Of
some concern to me was the fact that gear oil was now spewing from the hubs
of my rear axle. The seals had failed.
The next morning, we decided that Steve would drive straight on to home
while we would pay the boys at ARB USA a visit. I couldn't remember the
address of ARB off hand so I wanted to pick up a 4x4 mag to help us find it.
We went to a whole series of gas stations: some had no magazines, some had
every firearm magazine known to man, but nothing else. We began to panic
once we got close to Seattle's city centre. I took the first available exit
and started looking for somewhere that sold magazines. After circling
around for a while, I finally found a corner store. We screeched to a halt
in front of it and I ran in to look. I couldn't see ANY magazines anywhere
in the store. Now up in Canada, EVERY corner store would at least have last
month's issue of Four Wheeler, but they had NOTHING. I asked the woman
behind the counter if she had any magazines. She didn't speak much english,
but I eventually managed to make her understand what I wanted. She pointed
to a bookshelf that was covered with a sheet. I was kind of confused as to
why the magazines were all hiden until I pulled the sheet aside and revealed
a wall of flesh. I politely told the woman that wasn't the kind of magazine
I was looking for and bolted from the store. Eventually Alf and I managed
to find a friendly gas station attendant that would let us use a phone book.
He even let us check out one of his maps.
We finally found ARB USA and wandered in. I jokingly chewed Greg out for
the failure of my diff and the ensuing blown seals. At that point, I
figured that the ARB had pressurized the housing and popped out the axle
shaft seals. Greg stated that the ARB compressor doesn't pump enough volume
to be able to do that, but I was still skeptical. I got a little "care
package" of everything I would need to fix whatever was wrong with my
locker, and after chatting about BJ70 suspension systems for a bit Alf and I
continued on our way. We had to brave both Seattle and to a lesser extent
Vancouver rush-hour but somehow we managed to make it home.
Denouement
After pulling the third member out of the axle, I discovered the cause of
all my problems. The preload on the pinion had become incredibly tight.
The extra strain had heated up the bearings which had super-heated the
synthetic gear oil. My high-routed breathers (which had been perfectly
capable of coping with normal pressurization of the axle housing) were not
up to the challenge of the rapid expansion of the air in my axle housing.
As a result, the ARB seal had been imploded and finally, the axle seals had
popped. I believe the sudden increase in the pinion pre-load can be
attributed to the re-use of an old crush-sleave by the installer of my
locker (a friend who will remain nameless)
Conclusions
1. 3 speed transfer cases are no fun for long distance touring in non-sound
insulated vehicles
2. Overdrive is essential for long distance cruising with a diesel
3. My 3rd and 4th gearing with the 235/85R16s and 4.11s is damn near
perfect--I only had to downshift from 4th on a couple of the more extreme
hills on I-5.
4. Even running at a fairly constant 65MPH, my BJ40 STILL managed an
average of 25MPG on the highway.
5. I will DEFINITELY return next year.
6. Gary was right--you really do need 33s to not sustain body damage
(without rock stacking) I'm hoping to attempt little sluice next year with
255/85R16s, trimmed rockers, and sectioned fenders.
7. I think next year I'll try to find people to make a more casual run in
on Wednesday. The pace of the organized runs was FAR to quick for me. I
prefer to be able to stop and walk the more difficult portions of the trail
before I take the truck over them.
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