The rest of you are just driving ‘cars’

Throughout all the car collections my dad had, it was always awesome when he was into Jeeps.

Even as a little kid, I recognized that there was just something cool about a Jeep. He had CJ-5s, CJ-7s, a CJ-8 (the Scrambler, my personal favorite), Wagoneers, Commandos, J-10s and J-1000s, an old FC (that was constantly overheating), Willy’s trucks and wagons, and for the family business a fleet of DJs (mail Jeeps). If you’re not sure what those are, well, that’s almost every type of Jeep there was.

There was just something that goes straight to a young man’s heart when you’re in a Jeep scaling an impossibly steep hill, climbing over a rock the size of a small house or straining to pull itself through several feet of muck and water. I can’t describe it, but it’s like going on a roller coaster. It’s exciting and we can’t wait to do it again.

When I was in my 20s, I just had to go find a Jeep. I was fortunate enough to stumble across an old, worn-out black Jeep Scrambler. She was black with a goofy after-market top and doors that let the rain and water come rushing in in sufficient quantity that you might as well have not had them. The front end was horribly out of alignment, the heater was marginal, the 5-speed transmission had issues, the tires were old and worn out — and I loved it.

After putting some work into it, it was straight for my parent’s house and their overgrown backyard. Just to see if I could clear a path through it. (I was successful. My mom made me stop so she could take a picture of me in-progress. I still have it around here somewhere.) When it was fall and the blackberries were ripe (this was in Washington state), everybody would scramble to pick the best berries from the perimeter of patches that were sometimes several feet high and encompassing several acres. This meant that unless you were there quick or had the time to drive way out of town, you were stuck picking whatever everybody else hadn’t grabbed yet. But with my Jeep, no problem! Just crank it into four-wheel low and plow into the middle of the blackberry patch. Pick the berries from the comfort of the seat!

I foolishly traded that Scrambler for an old 1968 Austin Mini. I miss it every day, but a few years later I had the fever again. At the time, I was working for the Department of Defense and making great money. I was averaging over 1,000 hours per year in overtime. The only problem was, I was married to a gal who loved all that money I was making and loved the credit it provided her. We had new furniture, she had new clothes every weekend and it seemed we were going on trips all the time. Oh, and she bought herself a new rig every year (or sometimes even every few months).

Meanwhile, I was commuting back and forth in 10- to 15–year-old cars with several hundred thousand miles on them. Something was amiss. One day as I stood on top of a few hundred feet of scaffolding feeling rather melancholy about my life and daydreaming about the things I would like to have, something snapped. I was earning more money than I ever had in my life and dang it! I deserve at least something out of it, right? I simply stopped what I was doing, climbed down, went to the supervisor and told him I was clocking out for the rest of the day. I hopped in my worn-out old Thunderbird and headed over to Auto Center Way (the place in Bremerton, Wash., where all the dealerships were.)

And there she was, parked up front by the road — a 1997 Jeep TJ (Wrangler) Sport. And she was even in black. A few signatures later and I was pulling all my stuff out of that old Ford and putting them in my new Jeep to drive home and face the wrath of my wife. And she didn’t disappoint.

She was waiting there, hands on hips and asked me, “What is that?” as I hopped out.

“A Jeep” was my only reply as I walked around her into the house, smiling.

Uncharacteristically, she actually dropped it. I must have had “that look” in my eye. A few weeks later and I had lifted it, put 35-inch BF Goodrich mud and snow tires on it and a few other off-road goodies. With my young son strapped into the backseat I set out with my fellow Jeep buddies from work to go find some mud. The grinning, laughing and clapping hands coming from the back as dad wallowed through impossible mud holes was music to my ears. Afterward, he helped me scrape mud off the side and rear windows so I could see as we drove home. I purposely left it muddy for a week; my Jeep “badge of honor” that this was no mere “Barbie Jeep” (for the uninitiated, “Barbie Jeeps” are Jeeps that are lifted etc. but never leave the pavement). Sadly, my wife’s appetite for the finer things in life only grew more ravenous and in order to keep the peace I sold it so she could have her brand new Suburban. Just like my Scrambler, I miss it every day.

The years have gone by (she is now my ex-wife) and I’ve always dreamed of the day I could buy another TJ (my wife, Glenny, loves Jeeps and is fully supportive. In fact, she has promised me that upon her graduation from nursing school, I am to get my Jeep!) About a year ago, when we were in the market for a cheap second set of wheels, I stumbled across an old XJ (Cherokee) and the Jeep bug bit me again. Haven’t had the money to lift it or do any of the things I’d like just yet, but I will eventually. Having this Jeep has allowed me to reconnect with that special group of people who, like me, are a little “off” in the head and love Jeep culture.

We know that a Jeep is a Jeep and your Suzuki, or Tracker, or whatever little SUV you have, is not a “Jeep!” Don’t call it that! We wave and nod at each other in traffic to acknowledge a kindred lunatic. Because we’re in a Jeep and the rest of you are just driving “cars.”

Ben Compton is a Palmer resident and publishes his column as “Compton’s Corner,” the same title used by his grandmother, Phyllis Compton, a longtime Frontiersman columnist.