"Max?" I yell into the air. "Would you be so kind as to stand on the bumper and keep this thing from rolling down this mountain?" It's late. Dark. Alcohol-fueled animal snorts, both human and machine, fill the air and soak into Johnson Valley's topsoil.

We'd ascended a peak to improve our view of the tens of thousands of dirty, teeming, and partying masses below. They seem totally irrelevant now. The Jeep balances on two wheels and stretches time. Max, man of action, thin of experience, has sensed that the Jeep is tilting dangerously in the dark. "Okay!" He yells over the clatter of falling rock. The perfect man for the job.

Max gamely summits the Jeep, bounces his mass against gravity and through the windshield the halogen-lit horizon glides back into view. Far below, the drunken nocturnal racket of King of the Hammers goes on as before. We'd found the macho thing we were looking for.

I guess it's been here all along. The Wrangler Willys Wheeler edition Jeep Wrangler is that broadly macho thing, distilled. Everything you need, nothing you don't; that's the thought. Purity of essence, as Cold War hero Jack D. Ripper would say. It's Jeep. Just Jeep. America's uncorrupted vital fluids collected, cooked solid, boxed and marketed and wholesome. Pure as rainwater.

My high school idiot chariot was a Jeep; a custard-colored and lifted CJ-7 that poured gasoline out its broken fuel filler at the slightest overfill or incline. With low gears and monsterous Super Swampers it could barely handle the highway. Hell, it could barely handle a corner. It was glorious and I loved it.

In the Willys Wheeler I find that same cool ambivalence. It's a nice fit now, attached to actual competence. We spent a weekend with the Jeep, chasing the world's toughest single-day off-road race. Dunes, rock crawling, whoops, ridges, high speeds, low. Everything, and the teeter-tottering moment perched on a tall hill over Hammer Town in-between. The Wrangler held up and hauled ass. It did whatever we were up for. It was game, and I was surprised, because cool ambivalence is a sure invitation for a thrashing. Did I mention it has a stick?

The Willys Wheeler package, that's the stuff you'd probably add to the option sheet anyway if you give a damn and don't want to shell out and go full Rubicon. Besides the fairly agreeable Willys decals there's a limited-slip differential, meaty springs and gas shocks (plucked from the Rubicon), shiny black wheels, monster tires and 3.73 front and rear axle ratios. That's the stuff you need. A leather-wrapped steering wheel and satellite radio make the cut as well. Argue the niceties all you like. You run out of decent terrestrial radio far out in the desert, and I spent the better part of my drive in a death-grip. I didn't mind having either.

All told, the options run this particular Jeep out to cool $32,480. Not shabby, as bargains go. A minimalist can get the Willys Wheeler package down to an MSRP of $28,895, which seems impossible. And desirable.

Electric windows, Good cloth seats. Decent stereo. The soft top seals up so well I forget we're towing dust in our wake until we check in with a track marshal, then the cabin fills with brown talc and we have a conversation in coughs. The steady stream of racers has slowed to a drip. We cross the track and look for action.

About the time we engage low-range is the same time I start worrying about my face coming apart from sun and bump exposure. The gas shocks don't seem to be capable of bottoming out, but my chin can, on my sternum. It does once, and we cackle like lunatics. Soon thereafter Max and I smell the sweet reek of coolant.

We are squarely in the middle of nowhere, even by King of the Hammers standards. My sweet little Chinese-made two-way radio, tuned to the frequency of the racer's meat wagon for fun and safety, has bounced out the window, never to be seen again.

"Disaster." I say.

"Coolant cap, knucklehead." Replies the Jeep.

And we carry on.

Six-speeds and a low-range are a hell of a thing if you're trying to stay ahead of the stink of burned coolant. Transitioning from a steep rock slab to a fast downhill just means stepping across the box and skipping some gears. They're long, luxurious throws, you lob the Wrangler into gear, doesn't matter which one. The 3.6-liter Pentastar six-banger doesn't mind. The spec sheet gives the appearance of modesty, 285 hp, 260 lb-ft. Neither are stirring figures in these days of monster turbochargers, but it'd be insulting to the nature of a Jeep if they were.

So would criticism, really.

Chris Cantle

The Jeep has been so good for so long you already know what you need to know about it. Don't buy one if you care about gas mileage. Don't buy the soft top if you live in a city. The rear seat is nearly vestigial. Otherwise, game on. You've probably had one, or had a friend that had one. You probably liked it and admired its sense of purpose. This one is like all of 'em, just better. More refined. Distilled. Pure as rainwater.

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