Rediscovering Our Dreams in a Jeep Showroom

The salesman walked away for the third or eighth time to “talk with his manager.” He no doubt believed the longer he left us alone, staring out the showroom window at the rain-beaded Grand Cherokee Trailhawk, the deeper in love we’d fall. He stood there playing on his phone, chatting with colleagues, discussing the weather, baseball, his commission. Probably. He bided his time, waiting for us to eagerly accept the last price he quoted.

We’d been there for two hours. We test-drove it. We walked the lot to see a similar model in the color we desired. There was one in slate blue, with the Hemi engine and options packages we wanted over in Idaho. He could have it delivered in three days.

I’d won the battle on pricing. Despite a trade-in offer several thousand dollars lower than KBB estimated, we’d negotiated the out-the-door price down (with trade-in) over 35%. Taxes, registration, and delivery included.

But I was uneasy. And Kristin knew exactly why—and what to say to knock me off the fence I straddled.

Even dreams, the most delicate and intangible of things, can prove remarkably difficult to kill.” – Neil Gaiman

A Grand Cherokee and an Airstream. Perfect together, just not for us.

Window Shopping at the Campground

We returned yesterday from three nights spent camping in Olympic National Forest, here in Washington. It was our third camping trip this summer, each with our funky compact travel trailer. We hike, we read, and we eat way too much junk food, all beyond the reach of a cell signal. It’s marvelous. We’ve now spent 31 nights in our little Taxa Tigermoth since buying it in March 2018.

This was the first time we arrived home with no desire to upgrade.

We cap each night while camping with a stroll around the campground, as much to give the dog one final potty break before bed as for a chance to window shop. If you’ve never attended an RV show or spent much time in a campground, the vast array of styles and sizes of trailers and RVs may surprise you.

Our Tigermoth draws a steady stream of gawkers due to its gullwing door and rugged, minimalist aesthetic and we still marvel at its practicality. But it has its limits. Namely, there’s no good place to escape should the weather (or bugs) become too much of a nuisance. Even with a pop-up canopy and screens, camping with the Tigermoth is akin to tenting. We could lay down inside. Or not. Sitting upright in “couch mode” is an uncomfortable option of last resort for anyone six-feet tall. Namely, me.

While fine for three or four nights at a time, neither of us wish to do a weeks-long trip with the Tigermoth. Buying an RV, I suppose, is a lot like buying your first boat. It’ll get you out on the water (or into the woods), but you’re always wanting something a little bigger. Nicer.

We made a hobby of researching RVs these past few years. Through our campground walks, countless hours of YouTube videos, and by attending RV shows. Our plan, so we thought, was to eventually upgrade to a Sprinter-based Class B+ motor home in the 25-foot range. Slightly wider than a standard hashtag-vanlife option, but lacking the bulk of larger models.

But wait! What about getting to the trailhead? Would we really want to break down camp, stow the awning and slide-out every day to go hiking? Would a larger so-called Class B+ even reach the trailheads we frequent?

No. And no. Which brought us back around to the world of towable travel trailers.

Our trusty Nismo Juke and Taxa Tigermoth along the Oregon coast.

Carts Before Horsepower

We ask a lot of our tow vehicle, a Nismo Juke. You can laugh, it’s okay. We keep the Tigermoth lightly packed for towing, tighten the reins while going over mountain passes, and are mindful of the 4-cylinder’s paucity of towing capacity. We also demand a lot of it when going hiking. Many of the trailheads we seek out are up long, washboard gravel roads, cratered with potholes, loose rocks, and occasional tree branches. The sport-tuned suspension and lower ride height isn’t ideal. But the all-wheel drive turbo is fun to drive, nimble, and allows for “spirited” driving on windy roads.

Still, those travel trailers are heavy. And it sure would be nice to never have to worry about towing capacity again. Kristin and I remain haunted by blowing a transmission shortly after our move across the country 18 years ago.

The majority of SUVs are rated for 3,500 pounds. Many others, boasting third-row seating, are rated for 5,000 pounds. The trailer we were eying for a future purchase weighs in at 4,300 pounds … empty. Throw in mountain passes and gear and, well, we’d need something that can handle 5,500 pounds at minimum.

Wanting neither a pickup truck nor a behemoth like a Chevy Suburban or Toyota Sequoia limited our choices considerably. In short, the list of available vehicles that aren’t too large but can tow 5500+ pounds consists of: Land Rover’s Range Rover, Discovery, and the new Defender 110 (drool), and the Jeep Grand Cherokee. That’s it.

Waking to the Dream

For two weeks, I obsessed over finding a solution to our as-of-now nonexistent tow vehicle dilemma. And I don’t use that word loosely. I built and priced countless vehicles on manufacturer websites, scanned Autotrader and other sites for deals across the country on both new and certified pre-owned options. I hardly got any writing done.

And finally, after accepting that the Defender would have to wait until I write a best seller (a feat packing slightly better odds than winning MegaMillions, but only marginally more under my control), we settled on the Grand Cherokee Trailhawk. It could tow 7,200 pounds (with the V8 Hemi), didn’t have third-row seating, and the off-road capabilities of the Trailhawk model would ensure never again having to worry over which of the paths less traveled we chose.

There was a problem, though. We didn’t love the car.

Every car I’ve owned, even my lunchbox-on-wheels Honda Element, was purchased because I absolutely refused to leave without it. The Grand Cherokee’s capabilities are terrific. It could do everything we’d ever need from a vehicle.

But … sigh.

I walked over to the window and stared, trying to make myself lust after something I found unarousing. It was nice. Fine, even. I could grow to like it, I suppose.

Kristin approached, cautiously, aware I was wrestling with something heavy. She finally asked, “Do we really want to buy something that’s perfect twelve days a year, but a disappointment all the rest?”

And just like that, a trance had been shattered.

No, I didn’t want that.

I love having a car that drives like an over-sized go-kart with a kickass sound system and racing seats that hug me in place. Sure, it’s small, and funny looking, and I need to worry about ride height when going off-road, but so far so good. Knock wood. For all the talents of the Grand Cherokee, short of taking it to Moab, it was never going to be fun to drive. Not like the car we already owned outright.

We’d be giving up too much for the twelve days we go camping each year. Too much driving enjoyment. And way too much money.

No new car, necessary!

The Promise of a Foreign Tomorrow

No sooner had Kristin posed the question than a stream of math flowed through my mind. I’ll spare you the details. Suffice to say, despite a price well below MSRP, we were looking at spending as much on the Jeep as we did a year’s worth of bicycle touring. The travel trailer we desire retails for nearly as much as we spent during two years of travel.

Twelve days a year.

Are those camping trips the happiest times we’ve ever had? No.

They’re great, but nothing compares to our time spent bicycle touring through Europe and Asia. Those nightly dinner conversations that so often resembled synchronous daydreaming didn’t involve huge car payments and RV loans and camping trips.

They were about living abroad, residing on tourist visas three months here, three months there, continuing until we found a place we couldn’t bear to leave. And now, with Covid having potentially quickened the shift to a distributed workforce, the possibility seems even closer.

It’s easy to get caught up with the rush to acquire. To get tricked into thinking owning cars and RVs like this are normal. At home, four times a day we walk our dog past a parade of houses flanking the seven-figure price point. Every one of them with a BMW, Volvo, or, yes, a Grand Cherokee in the drive. I say this not to suggest that we want for anything. Or are envious. Only that it’s easy to think such luxury purchases are normal when they’re all you see.

The Jeep wasn’t going to be cheap. We could afford it, but it took standing in that showroom to realize it wasn’t what we wanted.

Staying debt-free and growing our savings is. Especially if it means we’ll be able to jump on the live-abroad lifestyle as soon as Kristin no longer has to commute to Seattle for work.

Twelve days a year? No thanks. We’re dreaming of the full 365.

But should that best-seller ever happen, I’ll take the Lexus RC F in ultrasonic blue, thank you kindly.

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