Buck Island to Rubicon Springs
Day two started with a literal roadblock right out of camp: the Buck Island V-notch climb. It was a chaotic traffic jam with Jeeps crawling in both directions. Among them was an 82-year-old trailblazer in a Gladiator, cruising westbound and tackling the steep drop like a pro. His grit was a reminder that age is no barrier to chasing what you love.
Once we cleared the morning congestion, high above the final Buck Island campgrounds, Foxy got stuck hard on the S-turn rocks. I had to break out the winch, securing it to a massive pine tree to yank myself free. Evan, my son, along with Tucker and Grace in their stock Bronco—a manual, no less—wisely opted to bypass through the campgrounds. Smart move for their rigs.
Making New Friends
At that same spot, we crossed paths with a less-than-charming guy in a 1950s Land Rover. He bragged about conquering Fordyce the day before, oozing confidence. I complimented his rig, but not 30 seconds later, he tackled the same rock I’d struggled with and nearly flipped, slamming his driver’s door into a boulder. That rock was the only thing keeping him from rolling down the hill. We nicknamed him Richard—unaffectionately, of course.
Trouble Awaits
Big Sluice offered a welcome change with its tree-lined shade, but Foxy started acting up. The Jeep ran rough, with the check engine and battery lights flashing. I pulled off as far as I could to inspect the engine compartment—belts, connections, nothing obvious. When I restarted, the warning lights were gone, but it still sputtered from a dead stop. At the bottom of Big Sluice, Evan spotted the issue: a smashed tailpipe. A quick fix with channel locks opened it up, and Foxy ran smoothly again. Why Jeep designs tailpipes to hang so low and get pinched between rocks and bumpers is beyond me.
Checkered Flag Ahead
The journey to Rubicon Springs felt like a victory lap. Crossing the bridge signaled we were on track for a successful trip. Entering the Springs was nothing short of spectacular—lush green grass, a flowing river, waterfalls, and inviting pools to wash off the trail’s dust. The camp caretakers were phenomenal, guiding us through the various camp areas with warmth and expertise. They’re hands-down the best folks for the job. This was just after the Cybertruck fiasco, so the vibe was extra lively.
We settled at Dirty Dozen, a shady spot with soft dirt that beat sleeping on granite slabs. Evan, Tucker, Grace, and I set up camp, took a refreshing swim, and shared dinner. With cold drinks, we swapped stories about the day’s chaos—Richard’s near-miss, Foxy’s tailpipe drama, and the inspiring Gladiator driver.
Some Life Advice
The next morning, I was up early to photograph the stunning pools. Guess who’d camped right in the only pathway to them? Our pal Richard. A word of advice: don’t be a Richard.
