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2018 Jeep Wrangler Rubicon Off-road Review | Earning our trail rating the easy way

LAKE TAHOE, Calif. — When all 4,145 pounds of Jeep slams down on the rock, the BANG! cuts the tranquility of California's Sierra Nevada mountains, echoes off the surrounding hillsides, and travels for miles through the thick unmolested forest of ancient pines. The brutality of the impact sends a shutter though the Wrangler's chassis, compresses our spines into its seat padding, and momentarily yanks my hands from its leather wrapped steering wheel. Then comes the high-pitch screeching as the torque of the Jeep's 3.6-liter V6 and the frenetic clawing from its knobby BFGoodrich All-Terrains as it violently drags the steel of the Wrangler's floorpan along the rock's face. There's a groan from the front suspension as it reaches max articulation and the inevitable crunch when the solid mass mangles the thin gauge stainless steel of the JL's tailpipe. With the first obstacle cleared and 16 miles of America's most challenging off-road trail still ahead, I realize the Rubicon Trail Foundation has a lively sense of humor. Flip open the organization's printed map of the "world-famous Rubicon Trail" and the first thing you see is a quick list of tips to help you get from one trailhead to the other safely and responsibly. Right under where it advises you to pack out all trash and use the portable toilets, it states, "High clearance vehicles recommended." LOL. ROTF. LMAO. Bwaaaaahaaaaaaaa. That's a good one. But I guess it takes just one jerk in a Camry to ruin it for the rest of us. Jeep Jamboree USA, an organization famous for its off-road events on the trail, makes the point with a little less comicality, "A minimum of 33-inch tires, front & rear lockers, tow points, skid plates, rocker panel protection and CB Radios are mandatory requirements for the Rubicon Trail Jeep Jamboree," states its website in oversized bold letters. Our 2018 Jeep Wrangler Rubicon, the latest ultimate off-road factory Jeep on the new JL chassis, has all of it with the exception of the CB radio, which is unfortunate since black bears are easier to come by on the Rubicon than cell service. Our iPhones are as useless out here as mechanical sympathy for our steed. "Don't even try it," says one of our trail guides as he watches me fish my device from my luggage. "There's no service until we get back to Tahoe." That's a big 10-4. Lake Tahoe's crystal blue waters and charming downtown are about 30 miles from the Rubicon's eastern most trailhead. It's our finish line.

Chrysler investigating complaints of vehicles with faulty power modules

Chrysler owners are hopping mad after experiencing a series of electrical gremlins in some of the company's vehicles. Issues range from mere annoyances - windows rolling down and radios turning off of their own accord - to serious safety issues, with headlights that randomly shut off at night and cars that stall and refuse to start.
The issues are being blamed on the total integrated power module, which can cost up to $1,000 for customers to replace. This, of course, has led to a hefty batch of complaints to the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration, with 240 owners expressing their displeasure so far. Another site, CarComplaints.com, has registered over 300 complaints relating to the 2010 to 2011 Jeep Grand Cherokee and Dodge Durango, alone, according to The New York Times.
Chrysler has acknowledged that it's investigating the complaints and is analyzing the faulty TIPMs, but that isn't quite enough for customers of the affected vehicles. The newspaper has snagged a few of the more harrowing tales with the electrically challenged Chrysler products, culled from the NHTSA complaints.

2018 Jeep Wrangler Rubicon Alaska Cannonball | 14,000 miles to Deadhorse and back

I've never delayed big adventure long enough to fill a bucket. But I do have a bucket item that dates to 1992: drive from Deadhorse, Alaska, to Tierra del Fuego, Argentina. Twenty-six years later, it's time. But first, I needed a vehicle. And a Jeep Wrangler was not my first choice. Growing up as a kid in the Midwest, I loved Jeeps. But around 10 years ago I went on a camping trip to Death Valley with a colleague, testing the early JK Wrangler against the competition. By the end of it, I couldn't justify the ergonomic and physical punishment for the admittedly massive capability. So two years ago, I bought a 1994 Toyota Land Cruiser project truck to make the journey. I paid too much, and the Cruiser revealed itself to be not a garage project, but the Manhattan Project. I took this as a good omen. Adventure begins in the deep end, so why wait to get there? During a break from discovering enough gremlins to reboot the movie franchise, I had dinner with Jeep's West Coast PR guy. I mentioned my plans for a six-month overlanding trek to Alaska. He said, "You know, we've got a new Wrangler coming out — that might be a good test of the chassis." My outside voice said, "That would be interesting." My inside voice said, "Hmmm." Anything's possible after 10 years, right? I might like it. Might. Many plans have gone awry on the way to this moment. It's taken more than a year to lock in a start date, because Jeep couldn't spare a Wrangler Rubicon. Everyone else in America keeps buying them. A suitable Wrangler was found eventually, but now the deed had to be done in three months, not six. What was going to be a comfortably-paced, backwoods roll up to Alaska and back has turned into the Rubicon Overland Cannonball. I know 14 weeks is plenty of time to drive to the Arctic and back. (Tierra del Fuego is officially off the itinerary.) However, the point of this trip is to fit in as much dirt, as many bucket-list trails, and all the wild America possible. That means my route's about 14,000 convoluted miles of criss-crossing the country in all the cardinal directions. And that's assuming everything goes to plan. Until last week, I was doing this trip with a friend from college who lives in Marietta, Georgia. He was the photo/video guy. Then he had a medical emergency, so the only trip he's taking is to the OR and rehab. Now I'm going by myself, and I think it's important to point out that I have no idea what I'm doing. That isn't modesty, that's truth: zero clue.