Palouse Outdoors: A Classic J-truck Revival

"Alright, God, how about a little help?" I muttered through clenched teeth. Sweat soaked my brow and stung my eyes. Grass poked at the back of my neck as I lay on my back, reaching up through hoses, belts, and 49 years of grease and grime. For 15 minutes, I'd struggled to hold a new mechanical fuel pump in place while the bolts refused to thread. The words had barely left my mouth when the bolt caught and threaded in with ease.

"Thank you!" I said, my left arm burning from the strain against the pump.

The rig above me was a 1977 Jeep J20, a three-quarter-ton pickup featuring an aluminum vertical-slat "razor" grille, round headlights, a roof visor extending over the windshield, a four-speed manual transmission, and an AMC 360-cubic-inch V8 engine. The "full-sized Jeep" or "J-truck" was produced from 1963 to 1987 with minimal design changes. They're an icon of American automotive history, known for their straightforward build, durability, and military service. 

Like most old rigs, this one had seen a hard life – a daily driver for a pole barn business for 20 years, then a farm truck before ending up as a lawn ornament. The Facebook Marketplace ad claimed it "ran," but that was an exaggeration. It started only when fuel was poured directly into the carburetor, and the engine popped and ticked from the timing being off. Lubricant dripped from everywhere. The interior was filthy. Dry-rotted vinyl and powdered duct tape crackled on the torn bench seat, and the floor pans looked like Swiss cheese. Lichens grew on the fenders. There were bullet holes in the windshield and the passenger-side interior. It had been sitting from 2008 to 2024 because of a blown wheel bearing. 

I chewed the inside of my left cheek, weighing whether to make an offer. The upcoming revival was daunting, but this rig checked every box for the next project in my lifelong obsession with J-trucks. It was the first reasonably-priced, complete J-truck that I'd perused over an 18-month period. No missing parts. The drivetrain was solid. It had a good tailgate (which is extremely rare). I couldn't resist.

A little haggling ended 23 regretful years since I sold my Army-green 1972 J2000. The daydreams of fishing, hunting, camping, and puttering around the mountains would once again become reality.

I firmly believe project vehicles need names. "Bessie" was my 1968 Ford F100. "Hulk" was my 1972 J2000. "Mabel" struck me as the name for the J20 as I looked her over. Named after Paul Maclean's indigenous girlfriend in Norman Maclean's classic novel, A River Runs Through It, she was beautiful, tough, and misunderstood. Those who appreciate J-trucks value their simplicity, durability, rugged good looks, and rarity.

The repairs began just minutes after I backed her off the trailer at home. The fuel pump failed, and while troubleshooting the fuel issue, I fried the voltage regulator. That started the daisy chain of fixes, failures, and mistakes that continued over the next 12 months. Every day was a learning experience.

I'm no mechanic, but I know J-trucks and learned enough mechanics from Dad (Pop) in my youth to be more than dangerous with a set of tools. Pop was a race car driver and mechanic until he was about 30. Sadly, he died in 2022, but his mentorship enabled me to undertake this classic rig revival. Pop was a dedicated worker who valued his downtime, yet he never complained about the hours spent wrenching on our jalopies with his boys. 

Haynes and Chilton repair manuals, supplemented by YouTube videos, were a godsend. The manuals are now grease-stained, dog-eared, and scribbled with notes, and I have a library of saved YouTube videos. I even made a few of my own for future reference. But divine intervention was necessary to bridge the gaps in my abilities, and I talked to God and Pop every day in the shop.

Pop's "help" wasn't always as immediate or obvious as my fuel-pump plea to God. Frustration would burn through me as I talked out a scenario, unable to envision a solution or complete a task. I'm known to get animated when things become unnecessarily difficult, and Mabel's final repair before hitting the road sticks with me.

"I've just rebuilt the entire ignition system, and there's still no spark at the points. How is that even possible?" I said aloud. Everything checked out with a multimeter. "What do you think, Pop?"

Twice, the ignition system failed after a test drive, leaving the Jeep in the shop and refusing to start. The coil failed the first time, but the second time there was no clear culprit. I replaced the ignition control module, distributor points, and condenser to cover all bases, but there was still no spark.

A small tantrum welled up, and I hurled a screwdriver across the shop, where it clanged off the sheet-metal wall and rattled to the floor, among other tools, in a cloud of choice language. Before storming out of the shop, Pop's subtle, common-sense nudge came from the back of my mind. "Just turn the key, son." Surprisingly, the engine roared to life after two revolutions. 

One year to the day after buying Mabel, we set out for mountain-stream trout fishing. Her revival took 50 days and hundreds of hours of blood, sweat, and tears. I completely rebuilt or replaced nearly every system on the vehicle, updated some interior components, and made electrical repairs to the gauges and lights. Walla Walla Transmission handled the clutch, water pump, and timing chain. Most days I wore grease on my face and arms up to my elbows, got rust in my eyes, and spilled oil, antifreeze, and brake fluid. But the effort paid off the instant we drove away, the front seat packed with fishing gear. 

The smell of gas and oil, the engine heat billowing into the cab, and the sense of freedom took me back more than 35 years to a sultry West Virginia summer day. The rig, a J10, was the spitting image of Mabel. My friend Richard was behind the wheel, his dark mullet spilling from under his ballcap. Mark Chesnutt, Travis Tritt, and other "prime country" heroes blared from the radio. 

We drove that rig up and down the mountains and across the fields all summer, fishing, hunting vermin, chewing tobacco, singing old country music, and feeling like "men." That core memory planted the ember of an undying obsession with J-trucks. Mabel's revival has fanned the ember into a flame.