“Where did you get those huge tires and wheels on your 2A?” my new friend asked.

“From Dick Cepek,” I replied.

“Dick Cepek? I’ve never heard of him.”

“He just opened a tire shop in South Gate, California. He also has a few off-roading things like Jerry cans, nylon tow straps, winches, things like that.” I told him. “These are my second set of tires from Dick. My other set was for my Land Cruiser, and Dick was selling tires out of the backdoor at Jacob’s Maps also in South Gate until his new shop was finished.”

“I’ll have to let the guys know about Cepek. We’re still using pickup snow tires and homemade wide rims here. By the way, did you hear about Kennedy?”

“What about Kennedy? We’ve been camping in Canyonlands for the past few days and haven’t heard any news at all.”

“Robert was shot and killed in LA two days ago!”

Springtime had not been kind to Moab and it rained a lot before our trip. Luckily we were able to edge around this water hole.

It was May 1968, my wife Saraine and I and our friends Rudy and Charmaine Hindelang (in a 1967 yellow Bronco towing a 13-foot Prowler camping trailer) had just spent several days camping just outside the entrance gate to the Needles Section of Canyonlands National Park. We had just eaten breakfast in the City Café—still the favorite eatery in Moab—and were talking with the folks who had literally walked out of the café to get a closer look at our Armstrong 1100x15 Farm Implement tires mounted on 10-inch-wide rims. They were straight grooved, quiet on the highway, and gave great traction with lowered air pressure (even in the snow). As I said earlier, mine came from Dick Cepek’s newly opened off-road shop and Rudy’s tires and wheels had been mounted on his ’67 Bronco by the Ford dealer from which he’d purchased it. According to what our new friends were telling us, they were the very first oversized tires and rims to be seen in Moab.

In those days—before cell phones (we used CBs), before GPS (we actually used paper maps!), before the term “SUV” was coined, before the Sierra Club began rousing rabble outside of California, and before Al Gore “invented” the Internet—Four Wheeler magazine was not only the bible of off-roading, it was the only magazine covering the sport (about 10 years later I had to great fortune to be hired as FW’s tech editor). If you owned a four wheeler, you had a subscription to Four Wheeler! In FW I had read about Moab’s magnificent monuments to mobile mania—probably a story on an early Easter Jeep Safari—and had insisted on a slight detour to our vacation trip to Yellowstone, which also gave us a chance to visit several other Utah attractions like Zion, Capitol Reef, and Arches national parks.

The Moab Rim Trail is one of the most popular trails, its one of the most scenic and its also one of the more difficult ones.

The four of us—Rudy and Charmaine in their 1967 289-powered, three-on-the-tree Ford Bronco, towing a brand-new 13-foot non-self-contained Prowler trailer (in which the four of us slept, cooked, and ate) and Saraine and I in our 1946 red Jeep CJ2A, powered by a Chevy 265 cid V8, with a Rancho 33% overdrive, Bestop soft-top (which was down most of the time), and just installed 2x10-inch drum brake kit—were finally able to coordinate our calendars in order to take a four-wheeling vacation together. Eventually, we would be in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, via Las Vegas (where I happened to win enough to pay for our entire trip) and Moab.

Even in those days, Canyonlands’ entrance gate was 35 miles northwest of US 191—but it was 35 miles of backbreaking, bone-shaking, teeth-jarring, cross-grained, and dusty dirt. My CJ could manage 15-20 mph, but Rudy couldn’t do more than 7-8 mph without shaking his Prowler apart. Saraine and I took a breather at Newspaper Rock, a special “billboard” where the ancients left messages for each other carved into and painted on a large, fairly flat rock face. You can tell from the pictographs just when the Spaniards arrived in the area—the depicted hunters began riding horses instead of being afoot—and in those days you could drive right up to the rock face (in the late 1970s a parking area with log barricades were added). After catching our breaths and stretching the kinks out of our backs, we moved on to the private campground/general store/gas station located just east of the park’s entrance.

I had to kick in the front ARB Air Locker after getting into the larger stair steps on the Moab Rim Trail.

While we waited for Rudy and Charmaine in the campground’s small café, Saraine and I ordered lunch. The waitress was also a co-owner of the campground and when she delivered my beer, she said, “I’m sorry, but it’s 60 cents for the beer.” (Don’t forget, this was in 1968!)

“For 60 cents, in LA, he gets his beer topless!” my wife quipped.

“Well, I’m sorry; I’m just not strong enough to pull the tab.” The waitress answered.

“No!” my wife said, “the waitress is topless, not the beer!”

“You’re kidding!”

Forty years later and I’m once again on my way to Moab in May. Also once again I’m taking a 25-year-old Chevy-powered red CJ—albeit, this time it’s a Seven. I’ve lost count of how many times we’ve visited Moab since 1968—although my second time was a full 10 years later in a brand-new 1978 CJ-7—but I’ll always wish we could have made it at least once every year since 1968.

Our trail boss missed this depression because of the low overcast; there was little or no shadowing to show definition. We were above the rim on a trail extension that only a few Jeepers get to enjoy.

All the old trails are still there: Elephant Hill, SOB hill, etc., and what seems like hundreds of new ones. As with almost all 50 states and the Canadian provinces, the greenies are trying to take away our trails around Moab, so it behooves you to plan a visit to Moab while it’s still memorable.

This past May 2008, Saraine and I were fortunate to be able to attend Moab once again with a great group—The Jeep Expeditions Group (www.jeepexpeditions.org), a loosely organized all-Jeep club headquartered in Phoenix, Arizona, but with members living in the Four Corners states plus California and Nevada. Many of the members stayed for the entire week leading up to Memorial Day weekend, while some of us were only able to stay for a few days.

Due to a blown electric fuel pump on my Howell EFI fuel system, I was only able to drive two trails this time, Hell’s Revenge and the Moab Rim trails.

Wild Bill putting the final touches on the 1982 CJ-7; the "400" inside the Chevy bowtie signifies that its powered by a Chevy 400 V-8 with a TH 350 auto.	Loaded and ready for Moab. This time the red CJ is being towed to Moab with a motorhome and not being driven as we did four decades ago.

Drivers meetings for the Jeep Expeditions usually involve food and beverages the night before the trails begin.	The Bestop rack shading our dogs and carrying our gear-I never thought I'd ever say a CJ-7 is too small-was mounted by Precision 4x4 in Kingman, Arizona just before we left. The Jerry can was because we weren't sure if it was our gas tank or our fuel pump causing fuel delivery problems.

Lined up at the base of Mini Lion’s Back, we quickly aired down for our assault on Hell’s Revenge.	Now its our turn at Mini Lion’s Back. The trail is well marked with a flame stencil signifying it’s the Hell’s Revenge Trail.

There were many long hills like this one on Hell’s Revenge. With a good set of tires, lockers weren’t really needed because the rock surface gave more than enough traction.	The tail gunner finally pulls onto the rock top where we’re having lunch.

Our perch provided a great view of the Colorado River and most of the rest of the trail.	Chef Mark DeNittis of Jeep Grille Adventures (http://jeepgrilleadventures.com) and his crew from Colorado provided a wonderful catered dinner for everyone in our campground.

We start ‘em young in Jeeps! Fortunately, he couldn’t reach the steering wheel and ignition key at the same time.	About halfway up the Moab Rim Trail, we reached the “stair steps”.

Finally, almost to the end of the stair steps. Just a few steep rock slopes left to get to the actual rim overlooking the city of Moab.	Looking almost as if we’re driving down into the river, you’re thinking two things at this point: “Brakes don’t fail me now!” and “I’m getting too old for this crap!”