We flew into Williston, North Dakota, and even though it was midnight or something, we drove directly to Pat's shop to witness the transformation of our Scrambler, now with Dana 60s, 7.17:1 cogs, and 42-inch Swampers. Ever notice how a Jeep can be in the shop for over two years and there's still a last-minute thrash when you're ready to go 'wheelin?
We barely slept that first night, anxious to get to the closest test facility: the amiable junkyard next door. That's Pat's '7 on the shrimpy 38s. We felt bad about the poor V-Dub, but they swore it was going to jaws whether we trampled it or not. They may be old tech by now, but spring-overs work when they're scienced out.
As per usual, we also took a break to hit the outback with the locals, who were ashamed at the lack of waist-deep ice for the Golden State guys. Here's Pat showing us how it's done; we tried the same and were rewarded with our first breakage, a shattered 1350 U-joint in the front driveshaft. The problem? It takes exactly two hours of grinding to get proper clearance on the front axle yoke for full droop, and our first one had only 90 minutes' worth. That bought us another day in town.
Finally we were on the road, and it didn't take us too long to find out that it was snowing in the cab even though, like true wimps, we had the half-cab in place. With that kind of ventilation we had no concerns about firing up the ol' Coleman propane-lit personal heater. Some good that did.
Armed with little more than the standard mufti of shorts and sandals, we remained in denial that we might actually freeze to death the entire way home. To slow the process, we cruised some little Wyoming berg for dumpster droppings and were rewarded with old hotel carpet to line the floorboards. Take this as a tech tip: it worked.
A road trip never really begins until you're beyond civilization, and we were way, way beyond the fast-food scourge when we rolled into the Tumble Inn. It was a Super Bowl party for two with perfectly greasy eggs and ham to match.
Californians Play With ColdIcicles were new to us: Just pour some water on the fender and watch 'em form. Kinda like the snot at the tip of your schnoz.
North Dakotans warned us to use this stuff in the gas tank. Gas de-icer? We can't imagine.
This was probably somewhere in Wyoming. All we can remember is there was no Corona to be found anywhere, so a Qwik-E-Mart jockey pointed us to his cousin over at Johnny O's. Way too many surface streets to get there, but the drive-through hooch was worth it.
So, we had this perfect route to jag through South Dakota-not a shortcut but an adventure. Like 100 miles of snow. Pinkos closed us down. We may have to call Costner on this one.