We Faced Rattlesnakes, Bears, and Boulders. The Rubicon Trail Changed How We See Adventure.

OUR CHOPPER DROPS into Northern California’s Desolation Wilderness, which immediately lets you know it’s very aptly named. Along the banks of the pristine clear water of Buck Island, a squad of Jeeps awaits us. This rugged fleet is at home in this obscenely beautiful wild area, one that isn’t easy to get to. And one that’s even harder to get out of.

The Rubicon Trail traces its origins back originally as a Native American footpath, vital for trade, and later used by prospectors and settlers during the Gold Rush. What has since emerged is a world-renowned 4X4 trail, a true test of a driver and their rig, and a site of the popular Jeep Jamboree events held here since the 1950s. As the blades of the heli wind up, a blast of dirt and sand whips at us, which is fitting; if we’re to be successful, we’ll become one with the dirt and dust of this historic trail. We watch as the only easy way out shrinks to the size of a gnat in the sky, and eventually dissolves into the hot July morning’s sun-washed blue, above. For the next two days it’s just us, and some American-made, four-wheeled, precision tools to get us out of here.

Jeep has experienced guides that will help us maneuver through some of the most tricky sections, while simultaneously building up our off-roading chops. While I’ve done many famed trails, none have had the extent of precarious boulders and rock-crawling that will unfold here. Crossing this kind of terrain will help me up-level those skills, determining which approaches will lead to success in clearing particular sections. Dangling at awkward angles, traversing blind descents, and at times along a cliff’s edge, focus and calm will be essential, to keep the Jeeps—and ourselves—out of harm’s way. Get anxious and mash the throttle, the wheels might slip out causing you to lose grip, or you might find yourself angled down into a deep ravine, and in need of recovery. All of these rigs are equipped with Warn winches, should we or another vehicle need it.

Our safety briefing is led by Ty, a colorful chief wrangler of all of the guides assembled here, who clips off essential info. “For when you exit the vehicle, we do have rattlesnakes here, be careful where you step. We do have two bears in camp, don’t keep any food with you, they will come through. Make sure you know how to engage the front and rear lockers before we head out, we’ll come by if you have any questions. This first bit is scary. Well, it doesn’t scare me, but it sure as hell will scare you.”

Climbing into our vehicles post-brief, I realize I’ve also hit the Jeep lottery, somehow. While our group’s fleet includes several Wrangler Rubicon models, even the popular 4Xe hybrid, I’ll be piloting the pinnacle of the fleet, the 392 Final Edition, at least for this first day. For the $100k base price—slap on a few more grand in the form of added heavy duty Mopar flooring, a Mopar air compressor, and destination charge—you get quite a few bells and whistles, as you’d expect. Firing up the engine emits a growl from the most prominent whistle of them all, a riled-up 6.4-liter SRT HEMI V8 under hood, mated to an eight-speed automatic transmission, distributing 470 seemingly agitated horses. A low rumble at idle will be a part of the day’s soundtrack, an auditory reminder of the brawn at the ready, just a few feet away.

Our beefy 35-inch BF Goodrich All-Terrain tires have been aired down into the low-20s PSI; less air gives us a larger contact patch, a little more rubber-on-rock means more traction, and will make the herky-jerky down below a little less chaotic in the cabin. Shifting into drive, we immediately kick things off rolling into shallow water. I feel like Shackleton must have during the Heroic Age, if he swapped heavy furs for Dri-Fit, and was rolling in 6 inches of calm snow melt instead of some Polar unknown. But it’s mostly similar by my calculation.

This crossing officially gets us from the island onto the Rubicon Trail. With about two days to tackle some of the trickiest sections, we’re essentially aiming to cover the last two-thirds or so of the trail. We’re immediately tested, as we take turns climbing over small boulders, the sway bar is disconnected to give our front wheels a little more articulation, at times one side needs to angle-up awkwardly over a feature, the fun bendy stuff. We have the transfer case swapped down into 4Lo—with all of the boulder and rock crawling, we want power at all four wheels, and with serious obstacles strew about the trail, we won’t be going more than a few MPH for much of the day, so we’ll want to operate in low gears, and get more power delivery at those lower speeds.

Two things help immensely: one is the front-facing camera, which helps us see what we’re crawling up on, and the second are the trail guides, a character each one, whose help in navigating the most trying sections is quite welcome for a first-timer on it. This trail is regarded as one of the most difficult for its relentless obstacles, and Jeep has borrowed its name as a badge of toughness. While I’ve driven a few vehicles that could navigate such terrain, I don’t think any make such daunting crawling look as effortless. We make progress the only way you can here, slowly. We come upon a group sitting out in beach chairs, their lifted rig proudly resting next to them. The water of a nearby lake shimmers beneath the baking sun. Midday in mid-summer, it’s hard to imagine this place covered in snow for much of the year, some years deep enough to bury a parked car.

Up ahead we’ve come to a stop as one of the Jeeps at the front of our convoy plots their line. I take a moment to gaze out at the surrounding peaks, scanning their features in awe. The highest ones still wear a scarf of white, even now. This mountain range accounts for about a quarter of the land in California, and the formidable slabs of granite of this range protrude into the sky higher than anywhere else in the United States, outside of Alaska. Though the Sierras boast famous 14ers, the Rubicon Trail itself is largely between 6,000ft-7,200ft above the sea, roughly 200 miles to the east of the Pacific.

We scale up an incline which leads to a blind descent. On the media touchscreen, I tap on the front camera, which shows a 20 foot decline, with a jagged rock to the left that I’ll want to avoid. Though I’ve barely off-roaded with these cameras before, at present, I wonder how that was ever so. Fire, the internet, and front-facing cameras surely must be some of humanity’s great inventions, in no particular order.

We break to lunch on sandwiches. I take a few minutes to walk off-trail, mindful of rattlesnakes with each step. I come upon a perch that overlooks this rocky forest, the impressive ridge lines above, and the vast canyon below. I do something that’s become a habit in these environs. I close my eyes, take slow, deliberate breaths in, hold, and slow deliberate exhales out. I can feel my blood pressure lowering, a calm flooding over. When I open my eyes, it’s as if I’m seeing this vista in a new way. I take a mental snapshot, as if to create a postcard in my mind of this place. Often when I return from these adventures, I recollect about the experience. But it’s often these moments of grounding and reflection, that make me feel connected. It’s a feeling I’ll want to recreate soon again. And often, part of the push to come to these wild, natural places.

Back on trail now, we come upon Big Sluice. A long minefield of a descent. I’m quickly learning sections don’t get named for their scenic qualities or tranquility, but rather treachery. It’s here where the steel skid plates underneath will shriek out, protecting the Jeeps’ innards, earning their keep. While we’ve had the rear lockers engaged at times, certain obstacles of the Sluice require the front-and-rears, which allows power and traction to get where it’s most needed. We shift into manual-mode, M1, and like a good cookout, low-and-slow will get us to the promised land.

The promised land on this particular day, happens to be Rubicon Springs. But standing in our way is this narrow, steep descent with countless boulders and rocks. Directly in front of me to the left is an awkward four-foot boulder, with a few foot gap between that and a slab raised about a foot out of the dirt, to the right. To the left of all of this is a leafy abyss that drops off. Ty is standing just beyond this section, gesturing me to come forward, as if passing this is an advisable possibility. “Give me driver!” He yells out, both hands wrapped around his mouth forming a natural megaphone. Driver, in guide talk, means point or drive to the left, driver’s side. Passenger is right. “More driver, more driver!” He yells out. I’ve made peace with the fact that he is sending me into the green abyss. I try to think who I’ve listed on my emergency contact, and what message they’ll receive. “He gave us too much driver. We’re very sorry.”

Despite this, I try to enlist a bit of present-mind focus. My left wheel begins ascending the boulder. Go too much to the left, and someone is getting a call. If I don’t land my right passenger wheel onto the slab, there’s a risk of tipping over. Ty balls both hands into fists and raises them straight above his head, indicating to freeze. He crouches down to asses wheel position and nods. “Okay, slowly, a little passenger, a little passenger.” I can feel my right wheel climb the slab. I’ve avoided the pit in the middle, and am presently angled to the right, the passenger window boasts a view of said slab. “Keep coming, keep coming!” I hear a metallic shriek, a robotic-hippo meeting its end, which is the skid plate underneath scratching over the boulder. “Good, good, keep coming!” Strange math.

At once I’m pointing downwards and the Jeep thumps down into the dirt, like a T-Rex asserting its position. I continue, ever-so-lightly pressing the throttle, and another thump and I rock up and down in the driver’s seat, the rear left wheel has cleared the boulder. Somewhere my chiropractor is smiling, his business outlook has just become more robust. Ty gives me a thumbs up, and motions me to continue, casually. Ahead, dozens of similar stretches are present.

I imagine once back in the city, if I’m going over a speed bump, passengers will instinctively remark on my technique, impressed by my extreme dexterity and poise, and the manner in which I got us all over the speed bump. I’m fairly sure that may happen.

Once we improbably come upon Rubicon Springs, it seems like an oasis. At one time this was a destination renowned for its healing mineral waters. There are string lights, a bonfire, dozens of people in every direction, tents and camp set up. We park the Jeeps. A short but steep hike up to a plateau gets us to our own camp, and panoramic vistas of ridges and pine. After a brief rest, lazing in the warm glow of the sun, we’ll descend back for dinner, a veritable buffet feast. There are herbed steaks, mashed potatoes, beans, corn cobs happily resting in a butter bath, caesar salad and dinner rolls. A table with a variety of pies will require a thorough investigation. Everyone’s eating well tonight.

I chat with a few Jeepers participating in a multi-day event. Some have done this before. Some return every year. There are all ages, a special camaraderie, community. It’s nearing dusk now, and as the day was hot and dusty, I venture off from the heart of the camp to cool my feet in the nearby creek. Just me, and 1,000 enthusiastic mosquitoes eager to make an acquaintance. Tiring of introductions—this must be exactly like what it’s like to be a celebrity—I make my way to join the group, and climb up to camp.

There’s a low-hanging giant yellow moon. It will later rise and brighten, but we take some time to admire it. Sounds of revelry below continue on into the night. Despite leaving the window flap open in my tent, it’s a warm night, and sleep doesn’t come as quickly as I’d imagined. We were told a couple of bears might make their way through camp trying to sniff out any food. I don’t think they bothered, unless they were feather-footed, or made their inquiries during my brief sleep.

We’re up with the sun, and coffee is quickly in hand. I have a hearty camp breakfast. We’ve got a long day ahead, I’ll be driving Wranglers with fewer cylinders—and in some cases, doors—ones that maneuvered the same trail with finesse and muscle the day prior. The infamous Cadillac Hill waits up ahead, so named because a Cadillac went off the trail in 1932, some rusted metal still marks the event. We’ll try not to add to the debris. If all goes well, we’ll be gazing at the banks of Lake Tahoe, the largest fresh water alpine lake in North America. And though this adventure hasn’t ended, I’m already thinking of when I might be getting into such an environment again. Adventure, with my newly up-leveled skills. The opportunity to appreciate the beauty of these difficult to reach places. To ground. But we have some miles yet between us and the lake. Time to wheel.