No modern vehicle eschews modernization more than the Wrangler, especially the two-door variant. In an off-roading landscape that increasingly favors large, luxe overlanders with trick tech and all the comforts of home, the Wrangler soldiers on with two doors, two solid axles, and recirculating ball steering. Base models have a folding cloth roof, a stickshift, and crank windows, for God’s sake.
The 2024 Wrangler was bestowed a mild update, but it’s still basically the same truck that was introduced six years ago. And as far as the Wrangler’s rugged ethos and upright, two-box design, well, that’s been virtually unchanged since the original Jeep design was drafted for World War II.
The Wrangler is widely known as a handful at highway speeds, especially with its short two-door wheelbase. It won’t win any awards for ride comfort either. (A three-mile jaunt on I-5 confirmed this.) This truck, in Rubicon X guise, is $64,905 as delivered, gets an EPA-rated 21 miles per gallon from its turbo four-cylinder, and can fit about three shopping bags in the trunk when the rear seats are being used. If I applied traditional car-reviewer math to this truck, it would not add up.
Despite this, the Wrangler is an American cult classic, an alien phenomenon to those who have never experienced Jeep Life. The common refrain of owners is that "it’s a Jeep thing." Without driving one, you’ll never understand.
There’s decent evidence supporting their case, too: Wranglers hold resale values better than virtually any other 4x4 truck on the market, and since the current-generation JL Wrangler was introduced in 2018, Jeep’s sold 1,288,099 of them—roughly 50% more sales than the Toyota 4Runner over the same period. I’ve never had enough hands-on time with a Wrangler to grasp their appeal, but I do love to go off-roading.
Even if I didn’t get "the Jeep thing," I’d probably still have a good time.
The Jeep arrived exactly the way an irrational car-loving 29-year-old would want it. Two doors—check. Rubicon trim with 35-inch BFGoodrich K02s, electronically-disconnecting front sway bar, Dana axles, lockers front and rear—check. High Velocity Yellow—check. I made one last special request: Hold the doors and roof.
Jeep set me up with a set of Mopar tube doors, mirrors, and mesh covers ($1,463 at a dealership), unbolted the roof, and told me to go have fun. When the Wrangler arrived at my apartment, I giggled with glee. In this spec, it looked like a cartoon drawing of a Jeep given physical form. Delightful.
Of course, I immediately ran into some practical issues. I don’t have covered parking at my downtown Seattle apartment, and thunderstorms were forecast for the weekend I had the Jeep. I had to get out of town quickly to avoid the rain—the Wrangler’s interior is water-resistant, not water-proof.
I rapidly assembled a loose collection of ideas that I referred to as a "plan," of which it was certainly not. My fiance backpacked a lot before we met, but I wanted to show her dispersed camping the way I’d always done it—pick a spot on a National Forest map that looks interesting, aim for it with a 4x4, and see how close you get to the "x" on the map.
I confirmed the forests were not on fire, chose a handful of spots that seemed shielded from the coming thunderstorms, and bought a tarp just in case. "Plan" complete.
If Brat Summer Were A Car, It Would Be This
Seattle is not a car-centric city. I’ve driven bright-red Aston Martins and satin-gray 7 Series downtown, and rarely have they garnered a glance. This Jeep, however, was a celebrity the second I wheeled it from my apartment parking lot. Instant, universal adoration from everyone who saw it—and me. A few Jeep-waves with other Wrangler drivers marked induction into a cool kids’ club I didn’t even know existed. I finally understood why Jeeps are the popular-girl car casting choice in television and movies.
My fiancée and I packed a tent, light provisions, a handful of essential toiletries, and some changes of clothes. As soon as she got home from work on Friday night, we headed East towards U.S. 2, one of just five roads in the state of Washington that cuts an east-west path through the mighty Cascades. The freeway drive was predictably miserable. Temperatures in Seattle have been cold for August, and while the Rubicon X comes with heated seats, there’s only so much comfort to be found without a roof or doors.
We reached U.S. 2, and slowed to a pleasant pace. We headed down a gravel road deep in the Wenatchee National Forest as twilight set in. I parked us in a clearing, we pitched our tent in the glow of the headlights of the Jeep, and crashed for the night, exhausted.
The sunrise was glorious. It was difficult to tell how scenic our spot was when we parked in the dark, but we chose well. The morning light blazed down the mountains around us, illuminating a stunning valley lush with wildflowers. We packed our tent and drove to the end of the trail, finding waterfalls and meadows and stunning cliffside views. Nothing challenged the Jeep even remotely, but we felt reinvigorated, and that was enough.
Outrunning God In A Rubicon
The next camping spot sat far to the north, the only public land forecasted to avoid the deluge. The rest of the day was devoted to getting there via paved roads. We swung through the village of Skykomish for vintage architecture and coffee, visited a pioneer museum in Cashmere to indulge in road-trip Americana, and hit up a Winco in Wenatchee for supplies. As the day wore on, the valley beyond the mountains heated. The Jeep was equipped with an optional sunshade bikini top (Mopar, $220), but we’d removed that immediately in favor of blue skies and sunshine. As temps climbed into the 90s, we fatigued rapidly and realized that dropping the top might have been a mistake. We left it off anyway.
As the Wrangler ate miles on the winding riverside road, the two of us fell in love with one of the Rubicon X’s luxury features—the Alpine stereo. Even at 55 miles an hour with the wind blasting us, no door speakers, and the trunk fully packed with camping gear, our music was crystal-clear. It did wonders for our spirits. My fiancée has a beautiful singing voice, and hearing her croon along to The Smiths as we carved through the base of the Cascades made the trip worth it all by itself.
A few hours before sunset, just outside of Okanogan, we found a patch of Washington State public land to set up camp in. We were at enough elevation—around 2,500 feet–that the air would cool off overnight, but hopefully not deep enough into the mountains that the storms would reach us. We still cut it close, waking to a gentle pitter-patter on the tent and the distant rumble of thunder at around midnight, but the worst of it never arrived.
As the day began to wind down, we found ourselves in the heat of Wenatchee once more, planning for the evening. We’d head to the southern section of U.S. 97, but instead of back-tracking via U.S. 2, I wanted to take a shortcut through the mountains. We had America’s finest off-roader, and I was tired of pavement. I let Gaia GPS chart me a path through 35 miles of 4x4 trails. If we got tired, we could set up camp; If not, we could push onward to home.
The trail we ended up on, incidentally, was the trickiest section of the Washington Backcountry Discovery Route. It’s no Moab, but it’s psychologically terrifying, consisting of washed-out potholed single-track trails carved directly into cliff faces. The most difficult section is exactly one car wide through a steep, cambered gully that angles toward a 200-ish-foot sheer drop. Here I felt truly thankful we had the Jeep. I could have tackled this in a lesser truck, but we were now 450 miles into the weekend. I was sunbeaten and exhausted, the sun was setting, and the only way out was alongside this cliff face. I needed this to go smoothly for my sanity’s sake.
I put the Wrangler into low gear and it drove through the muddy, rocky gully like it was a side street in downtown Seattle.
I Understand.
There was the real magic of the Jeep. I am fairly confident that with this truck and the tiniest bit of skill, I could have tackled basically any trail in the United States. No frontier is off-limits. The Wrangler lends itself to unplanned adventuring because the odds of getting truly stuck are virtually nil, and so you can pick any point on a map and get there.
When I returned the Wrangler on Monday morning, my prefrontal cortex tried to make its car-reviewer arguments. Our fuel mileage was terrible, the steering felt vague, and the Wrangler objectively costs a lot of money. But as an enthusiast, I was completely satisfied. I would make all those irrational trade-offs in a heartbeat for a vehicle this capable, with this joyous vibe.
I understand the Jeep Thing.
