Another car bought sight unseen, another “gotta own this one someday” box checked. It also ticked the “probably definitely won’t break down” box, a critical facet for this purchase. The job? Scout the ’22 Overcrest Rally: 10 days, 8-10 hours a day, and thousands of miles, all in one state. Idaho. The 1979 300TD was rough but rust-free, and as my grandfather would say with a touch of irony, “a smooth runner with a straight body.” Despite its quirks, the W123’s legendary reliability and patience testing pace made it the perfect scout vehicle for the rally.
Most of the state is seen from a 72 mile jaunt across i90. A stretch easily defeated by those that would often rather be “there” than wherever “here” was. In about one episode of a podcast it’s over and everyone is on to Spokane, Seattle, Portland, or some far off distant easterly place where pizza and bagels are made just right. No one hops off to venture inland to try some finger steaks or french fries from potatoes pulled out of the ground a few hours earlier. There are no grandma’s huckleberry pies on the interstate either. But Idaho’s uniqueness goes beyond just the food, it has roads. Some of the best one’s you’ll ever get the pleasure to find.
Idaho proudly wears the Sawtooth Mountains at its heart. At the state’s beltline lies Boise, the capital city that initially wasn’t even on our radar. It lay too far below the squiggly tarmac and unknown mud and gravel of the forest roads. Before heading up there, the car needed a few things. It was the crest of summer, and the air conditioning didn’t work. We needed to install the European headlights that came with the car or we couldn’t bear our own existence. It didn’t have a roof rack, which seemed like a shame, and Jasin, the co-driver, a quiet, sharp, and witty man, wanted a bicycle in case we got stranded somewhere.
“Dude, We are not going to need a bicycle. This thing is the most reliable vehicle ever made”
“We might.”
“We won’t…”
Despite the w123 being the most reliable vehicle ever made, we ended up looking for a bike. After a bunch of “is it availables” we still ended up just going to a Pocatello pawn shop. We now had a bike (and cooler for Dews) on our roof rack.
The air-conditioning swallowed up some cans of r134, and with some hotwiring of the compressor, we had ac. There was no power with it on, but we had it. 77hp with it off, and probably 65 with it at full chat. The vacuum system controlling the HVAC in the car was shot and screwdrivers were shoved through the vents to hold the blower flap open. It was the only way to get air flow. The fact that each one was essentially a guaranteed death by being impaled in an accident wasn’t lost on us, but aircon is aircon, the bastion and oil gilded holy grail of any old shitbox. If you’ve got it, you’re a king, and we had it. Us kings, royal purveyors and surveyors of the almighty road trip. May all without it bow before our superiority, piety, and condescension.
Far up into the mountains, we were met with snow. It was somewhere between “no problem” and “big problem” in depth, located a two-hour drive from where we’d started, and just 100 yards from the summit. The other side of the summit, and our route out, was right there. You could have hurled a stone and hit dirt on the other side. It was the answer to all of the “do we really want to drive 2 hours backwards?” considerations. The easy answer to this was no. No we did not. This route was supposed to be on the rally, which meant we’d have to drive back the other side just to check it out. The 30-40 yards of snow that swept across the mud was dense, and slushy, the last vestige of a long winter at 9000 feet. Making it through would save half a day of driving. The bike loomed.
“What do you think?”
“Not great.”
“Not great… yeah.”
“Should we make a run at it?”
“Sure, why not.”
Why not was that it was a really bad idea. At that altitude that car, even with the AC off was gutless. Maybe 50 hp. When it was new. 270k miles ago. The gearshift dropped into low and the old OM617 wheezed without spinning the tires in the mud towards the snow. There was no climax, no “ope, he might make it.” It was beached with just a few yards to go. The bike loomed again.
Hours passed and after the digging with the top tray of a toolbox got tiresome the conversation got closer and closer to riding back down the mountain. In the middle of the debate a truck rounded the bend. After a chat the driver realized he wouldn’t make it through either, but he did have a tow strap. Kings saved by mere mortals, a story for all time.
“Told you we wouldn’t need the bike.”
On the way out, some sort of celestial car karma kicked in and the right front caliper seized. The roads were slick with rain and the car was not doing well downhill. A call out to social media didn’t help and we were forced into heading to Boise to hit up a junkyard. There, the two wrench trick and some elbow grease yanked a caliper off an old w114 250C. It was pure luck the car was there and we knew it. This was the land of Bumpside Ford’s, not the land of vintage German tanks.
On the way out the door of the yard we spotted another w123 parked right next to ours. A turbo diesel sedan with a lot of miles. This thing had been around the block, a million times. It was well worn. The US headlights were in rough shape with one side missing the bezel, and the other side about to be. The caliper got chucked in the backseat for later We knew exactly what we had to do. Working fast, we yanked the Euro-spec H4s out of their boxes, uninstalled the very nice US-spec lights, and swapped them out. Just as we finished, the owner of the million-block W123 walked up. As is often the case the man looked a bit like his car. He’d seen a few things and his weathered skin and thin wild hair spoke of it.
“Love your car sir.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“Hey so we noticed you maybe needed some headlights.”
“Yep, thats why I was here, but no luck.”
“I tell you what, take these.”
“What do you want for them?”
“Nothing.”
The man thanked us, took the headlights graciously, hopped in his car, and clattered away. It’s possible we got stuck and that caliper got seized for a reason.
Incredible roads were in abundance. Warm Lake Road, a monument to loneliness, curling up and up eternally, forcing us to shove snow in the engine compartment to keep going. White bird grade. A high bedrock set of switchbacks set in the hills below Grangeville. Both were empty. No one ever came, and it was ours for every mile. These roads are not in your backyard, and it takes significant effort to get out that far past the border of what people consider nowhere, but it’s worth it, when you find out they’re all yours.
