March/April 2010

Rubithon 2009: “I Understand That I Might Die on This Trail.”

by Ryan Davis

It was 11:30 on Tuesday night and I was starting to break down under the pressure of getting ready to go. I swore at that moment that if I hadn’t been the ring leader/trail boss of this whole Rubithon shindig, I’d have bailed on the trip right then. I think the breaking point was when finally everything was done on my rig and it was time to put her on the trailer. There I sat in the driver’s seat, cranking away with no sign of life….

Once in a while, the 3FE in my 1979 FJ40 can be a little stubborn starting, so I give her some leeway. This time, it all just seemed worse, daunting, disparaging—and being sick didn’t seem to be helping things. At that point, my best option may have been to find a clean spot on the shop floor and cry for a minute. I’m not above that…. Lots more cranking, three hours of sleep, a bacon, egg and cheese bagel and a large Diet Coke later, we were finally underway.

After a mostly uneventful but long drive from Utah through Nevada, we arrived at the Rubithon staging area in Tahoma, California. I always get a big shot of adrenaline when I make it to the staging area—it’s like, “Hell yes, we finally made it!” Well, except for that little drive around the lake to Icehouse Resort, which probably takes an hour and a half but it feels more like three.

We arrived at Icehouse to find that the rest of our group was safe and accounted for, which allowed me to put my mind at ease. Now I could concentrate on getting a few well-needed ZZZ’s and having a good time with my friends.

Thursday morning, we topped off the tanks one last time and had a quick drivers meeting while Marc Van Tassell, our club secretary, got to work having the guys sign a club liability release and participation roster. This was no ordinary release, since we’d forgotten the proper form. No, this was handwritten on a brown paper bag and read, “I understand that I might die on this trail.” It was good for a chuckle, served the purpose and seemed to lighten everybody’s mood on a cold, rainy morning. We made our way toward Loon Lake, which would mark the entrance to the trail for us. And now, finally, we were on the trail.

To be honest, I didn’t know what the others were expecting of the trail. It has its own acclaim, so I didn’t feel the need to hype it up. They’d had plenty of time to think about it, look at pics, read write-ups, get excited—we’d been planning this since February. This was my sixth time on the trail and one thing you can count on is that this trail is relentless. It’s not like Moab, right here in the Wasatch Cruisers’ backyard, where you wander along in 4-low, then get out a few times on the trail to watch people go over the main obstacles.

No, this trail is much different. From the time you say, “Go!” until the time you hit the other staging area 17 miles down the trail, you are being pounded by boulder after boulder, inclines, tight turns, other trucks, trees, the works.... It requires your full attention; it’s exhausting, it’s beautiful and it’s difficult.

Our rag tag group was comprised of six FJ40s and five FZJ80s that ranged in build from 3-½” of lift and 255’s to 6” comp springs and 315’s. You find very quickly on this trail that there is a time and a place for the wheelbase of an 80 series and this was not that place—it was going to be work, no question about it.

We made our way through Gate Keeper, the Alligator Pit and that big granite bowl that owns me every time I do this trail. Not quite to the start of Walker Hill, we had our first breakdown. Ray Connors had pulled his shackle hanger off the frame of his FJ40, “Whoopi,” as we’d decided to call her ever since I busted Ray watching Sister Act in the garage at 9 AM on a weekday. Seriously Ray, is retirement all it’s cracked up to be…?

Johnny Lange descending the Slabs route between Spider and Buck Island Lakes. Photo by Skylar Nielsen

Dave Helm’s paparazzi team dons their swimming goggles near Buck Island Lake. Photo by Johnny Lange

Ryan Davis in his 3F-E powered 1979 FJ40 (Shiloh) winding over the granite fields near Loon Lake.
Photo by Skylar Nielsen

Tim York checks the gap between sheet metal and rock—and wishes he had fatter friends.
Photo by Johnny Lange