The trip is unfolding exactly as I'd hoped.
Friday morning, Loon Lake.
I'm looking at the custom rigs gathered at the mouth of the Rubicon, and a sliver of anxiety wriggles in my stomach. What are we getting ourselves into? Or rather, what have I got us into? The Jeeps' stock 32-inch mud-terrain tires looked massive on asphalt, but they're quaint compared to the other vehicles' supersized rubber. An idling Toyota 4Runner is jacked up higher than an Alabama swamp house on stilts. The old-timer inside sizes us up and shakes his head, apparently finding us lacking.
I've got off-road experience, but not at this level, so I enlisted the big guns: guides and trail support from Jeep Jamboree, the off-road organization that specializes in trips to the Rubicon. A TJ model Wrangler will lead us, driven by Shawn Gulling, and two pointers will follow on foot and guide using hand signals. They are Becky Mutzig and Bryan Stiles. They don't appear comforted by our citified looks either.
"Who wants to drive first?" I ask. Jason No. 1 (Bennett) takes the red four-door Rubicon Unlimited with a five-speed automatic, while Jason No. 3 pilots the two-door softtop with a six-speed manual. We turtle onto the Granite Bowl, a plain of solid rock, the trail marked with dashes of paint.
Our goal today is a mere 8 miles. We're told we should reach tonight's campsite by 3 p.m. or so. The site is owned by Jamboree and has tents, a campfire, and a cooler of cold beer. It's also the place where we can crack the bottle of good bourbon I brought along.
We hit the part of the trail called Big Sluice. The name Rubicon Trail, I decide, is a misnomer. Total bullshit.
The trail gets technical within minutes. The Jeeps are already in low gear, anti-roll bars disconnected. The pointers watch as the Jasons bumble through a boulder field. "Put your tires on top of the biggest rocks," they instruct. Clearance is already an issue. I tell Bryan I'd like to avoid body damage. "Sure," he says, but with a yeah-right shrug.
An hour later I take the wheel of the Unlimited and slowly crawl off a high ledge. Krawk! Screech, whap! Metal kissing rock. Jesus, that hurts to hear. "Who thought this was a good idea?" I ask aloud, incredulously. Jason No. 3 is walking alongside and gives me a bemused look. Oh … right.
Our Jason numbering system is derived from the order in which we became buddies with Casey. Bennett met him in an Albuquerque high school, me at the University of New Mexico, and Henrichs at West Point Military Academy. Maybe it was fate—or just laziness on Casey's part (learning new names is toilsome!)—but 22-plus years later, here we all are.
We turned 40 last year. Between us there have been five marriages, two divorces, great careers gone bad, bad careers turned great, countless parties, and many epic hangovers. We squabble ("goddamned Bennett/Henrichs/Phoenix"), but unlike our fathers' generation, we also profess our love openly. Hugs abound. They are uncles to my 2-year-old son, and we're stuck with each other til death do us part.
Still, life is busy and so are we, and we don't hang out as often as we'd like. You know the deal. So every year we escape our daily drudgeries for the annual Boys Weekend. There are three rules: 1) One of us serves as the host, and does all the planning; 2) The destination can be anyplace in the world, but it can never be repeated; 3) There has to be a surprise involved, usually something adventurous and/or harrowing. We've rappelled off mountains in Quebec and snorkeled in St. Croix, but this year I wanted something long and grueling and out of cellphone range. Besides, it's easy to talk when you're moving along at a mile an hour.
If life is a sine wave, any two of us often seem to be on the high, happy side, while the other two are riding in the lower, rougher trough. Jason No. 1, who's next to me in the passenger seat, recently broke up with a great woman who simply wasn't the right one for him. He had to move, and dating in NYC can be madness. "This was the best idea I ever had," he says, referring to Boys Weekend. "I needed this."(Screeeech. )Indeed, the idea that we would make time for each other at least once a year, no matter what, was his. This year is our 10th.
Casey's in the smaller Jeep, making it look easy despite one wheel being totally off the ground. You can't fly a helicopter without having mechanical sympathy. These days he lives in Boston and works for a medical device company. Last year was rough, but ever the gambler, he doubled down on a major life decision and came up 21. This is his rock-star year.
Three p.m. comes and goes, yet we've only covered 5 miles. We drive over the dam at Buck Island Lake (literally over, fording the concrete barrier) and the trail gets exponentially harder. "We're never going to get through that," says Jason No. 1, repeatedly. Becky and Bryan move hundreds of rocks, making ramps, and miraculously keep us moving. "I can't believe we got through that," says Jason, right after.
Then, light falling, we hit the part of the trail called Big Sluice. The name Rubicon Trail, I decide, is a misnomer. Total bullshit. It doesn't even look like a trail, just a clog of rocks and boulders strewn into a ravine, hedged in by house-sized boulders and trees. The four-door Unlimited is too long to fit. I give up my silly idea that we'll escape without body damage. Even our phenomenal guides don't have a good route to suggest. They just shrug and let me come on down underside-banging precipices.
I recognize the smile of Jason's face. A sweet freedom, a sense of being one with a place. I haven't seen that look in years.
We limp into camp at 7:30. I pull out colorful North Face jackets I'd secretly brought for all the guys, knowing it would be mountain cold. Casey puts his on and says, surprisingly, "Dude, this is a blast. Amazing planning."
Jason No. 3 jumps into the river, washing off the trail dirt. Of the guys, he'd struggled the most, trying to find the détente between patience and power, throttle and brake. He was also responsible for the one trail tragedy of the day: He'd slammed off a high ledge, breaking our bottle of bourbon in the back of the Jeep.
"That's OK," Casey tells him consolingly, popping a brew. "We'll drink through it."
