Home and dry (sort of)

Rover road trip report

367 miles. 11 hours of driving, half a quart of 80w90 gear oil and a flask of Talisker. Tierra del Fuego it was not, but our round trip to Iowa was a resounding, and satisfying success. Aside from instilling a greater confidence in Giles, the old Land Rover, the trip was rewarding in other, less tangible respects.

Since Gishani went to college in Decorah, and lived with a family there for three years, we used to make trips south several times a year to visit friends, paddle the Upper Iowa River, hike the bluffs, and drink Toppling Goliath and Pulpit Rock beer. And we always drove the same route: Highway 52 South. Total time, door to door was less than two and a half hours. We often did overnights or even the odd one day visit. The trips were always more about what we did there and never about the journey. That part was just a nuisance.

The Land Rover is ill suited for a four-lane 65mph highway. It tops out around 55, steers like a schooner, and braking distance is measured in miles, not feet. This necessitated finding a circuitous route of backroads and county highways through a part of Minnesota we didn’t know existed. Out of Red Wing, we hopped on Highway 2 South, then MN-247 and 74, taking us through towns like Elba, Millville, and Plainview. Everywhere we stopped—to gas up, have a bite to eat, or simply stretch cramping legs (the ergonomics of a 40-year old agricultural vehicle are not suited for 6’2” drivers) brought curious people over to talk. 

In Red Wing, a woman pointed to the Union Jack flag decal on Giles’s fender and asked, “is that a Confederate flag?” This led to a long conversation about the current state of our country, race relations, and what it’s like to be a black woman in a small midwestern town. The width of the truck ensured safe social distance. On the drive home two days later, we stopped in West Concord (pop. 782) for a bathroom break. An older Pontiac pulled into the next parking space and a rather rotund older man stepped out, whistled and made a “Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom” joke, gesturing to our safari truck. Turns out he’s a boiler operator at an ethanol plant a few miles up the road, watches history documentaries during his shifts and is a student of political science, with views on socialism he was happy to share with us. At our campsite in Whitewater State Park, a young couple walked over and struck up a conversation about the merits of old trucks. And in downtown Decorah, the owner of a walk-up shop selling hand-sewn backpacks and clothing offered us a decal. I immediately affixed it to Giles’s side window, later to see the moment immortalized in his Instagram story.

If we’d driven our Volvo the usual route, or even the route we took, we never would have had these human interactions. The Land Rover became not only a vehicle for transport and adventure, but also for human connection. An old, slightly dilapidated British truck disarms people. There is no pretense to it. The exhaust smells, the doors bang imprecisely shut, and it leaves a healthy pool of oil under it. People are curious about it. But then talk turns quickly from the Land Rover to other topics. We decided that this was the real beauty of our trip, beyond the lovely hike we did up to Chimney Rock at the state park, the soup we ate by the fire, and rumbling over Iowa gravel roads. And isn’t civil, friendly, curious human interaction what we need in America right now? I don’t know for sure, but I suspect several of the people we met were of different political persuasions than us, but in those minutes of connection, it didn’t matter. We were just people talking, laughing, wishing each other well as we parted.

Mechanically, the only casualty of the whole trip was a front left turn signal, which ceased functioning, likely due to a bad ground, the soaking rain, or the vibration of miles on broken tarmac and gravel. I checked the fluids each morning and topped off the gearbox oil at our campsite, pleased to note it was only down a little bit, despite the copious puddle in the gravel below. My right thigh cramped up and was sore the whole trip afterwards, from a driving position that has me pretty much straddling the oversized steering wheel. But the new springs made for a cushy ride on country roads and the overdrive worked as advertised, cruising confidently at around 50 most of the time. The hard rain soaked a few items in the cargo area overnight, but nothing we couldn’t wring out. Oh, and a mouse was trapped under our tent’s groundcloth all night, which led to a frustrating sleepless night trying to find the source of the ceaseless scratching and gnawing sounds.

As predicted, the success of this first foray further afield has bolstered our confidence for future adventures and we’re already plotting the next one. We’re also starting to browse the rich vein of overlanding and vehicle camping gear options out there, from roof top tents to full on tricked out Defenders. Where this leads for sure is anyone’s guess. But one thing is for sure: wherever we end up, we’ll be taking the backroads from now on.