Writing a Personal Victory on Someone Else's Battlefield.

Howard Zinn has amassed a body of work by examining the stories below historical blankets of victory. History, he asserts, is written by the victor; therefore, his literature and lectures focus on illuminating the tribulations of the common people. Though far less revealing than Zinn's typical subject matter, I couldn't help but wonder, as I returned from the 30th Annual Jeep Jamboree this week, how he'd go about discovering the people's history here amid the ongoing battle between humans and mother nature.

First, a brief Rubicon history lesson. Lest you forget the trail, commonly referred to as "The Devil's Playground," was a public highway that linked the budding gold towns of Old Dry Diggins (Placerville), Coloma, and Growlersburg (Georgetown) to the wonders of Tahoe. The route was carved through what was essentially old trapper roads and Native American migration routes. It crosses open granite faces, skirts rugged mountain lakes and streams before tumbling (literarlly) down into the lush valley of springs along the Rubicon River, then climbs up and out toward the deep blue gem of the Sierras. Rubicon Springs itself housed a popular retreat hotel, accessible, at one point by a car or two, from both the Georgetown Divide and the west side of Lake Tahoe. It wasn't until 1953, after residents of Georgetown decided to boost local economy by hosting an organized Jeep tour along the trail, that the area reached its fame. On August 29, 55 Jeeps with 155 participants ventured from Georgetown on a two-day trip that is now known as "Jeepers Jamboree 1."

Eventually, word spread. Jeepers Jamboree is now a business, very recently celebrating it's 56th year of rock rolling. Demand grew so large that in 1978, the company created a second, smaller "Jeep" Jamboree (with which I am associated) to accommodate the intrigue. Others followed suit. One of the trip's originators, Mark Smith, established the offshoot Jeep Jamboree USA. More groups formed. The Lake Tahoe Hi-Los, Friends of the Rubicon, Toys on the Rocks, and the Clampers, to name a few, all wanting their tire tread stamped along the world's premier OHV trail. Just begin to consider what the Rubicon Trail has done for Chrysler, and it's easy understand the astronomical impact of, essentially, a pile of friggin' rocks.

But where there's conflict, there's a story. With a name like "The Devil's Playground," it's not hard to see how the challenge of the trail has evolved, for many, into a battle of good-versus-evil. And after watching so many dump so much into tires, axles, drive lines, springs, air lockers, and fenders, it's clear that many consider it a battle worth fighting. Jeepers treat the road like a surfer treats the tide. You respect it; you work with it; you don't piss it off.

It's a powerful, all-consuming sonofabitch, and this year, I'm finally willing to give it some credit. However, the props I'm willing to allot "The Grandaddy" of all off-road trails do not stem from any personal battle with its boulders; I didn't recently struggle through its challenging course or falter before eventually emerging victorious. I just felt it there, welcoming me back.

Beyond my 9-year history with the Jamborees, the trail is a well of memories. It hosted my family's annual Kid Trip (eventually dubbed the "Heathens from Hell Trip." Yes, we have t-shirts to prove it). The trip was an unfixed number of camping families sharing a weekend until it eventually swelled in size, not unlike the Jamboree itself, and crumbled under its own immense weight. It's the road on which I took my driver's test as a white-knuckled six-year old on his father's lap, steering a '77, shit-brown Landcruiser through the trees. I learned the values of moderation, sixteen years old and sneaking tequila into my orange Crush soda. The adults around me knew what I was up to, for they'd done it in similar style, and they kept their distance while I learned my lessons.

I've grown up in the presence of other Jamboree crew members; they're uncles and aunts and cousins and family friends. Like me, they're saturated in the traditions of the trail. They stop to admire the view from Observation Point, where at least one good friend must start his "Observation Point Mix" (which opens with an amazing Rusted Root track, by the way) to establish a mood for his descent into camp. Passersby pull over to pay their respects with a beer at Sid's Grave (in memory of Sid Mainwaring, who was a Forest Service employee and Jamboree committeeman, and relative/friend of many Jamboree employees). Brothers and sisters talk of their first solo trips on the trail, reminiscing about the feeling of being dropped off at Loon Lake at 15 years old, driving their future CJ-5 across trail they'd only seen from a passenger seat, only to be picked up again in Tahoe and shuttled home legally. It was the tradition of it all--not the trail itself--that eventually brought me to my knees.

So while so many find themselves out to conquer to Rubicon, intently burning through credit card receipts and repair bills in the hopes of taming the Rubicon, I'm just hoping the tradition finds a way to live on. It's no secret that years of attempting to tame it have had destructive consequences. Recently, high counts of fecal coliform in the soil closed access to Spider Lake. In many places, oil and fluid stains the open granite slabs. If one dragged a magnet through the rocks and rubble, they'd find shreds and shavings and bolts and brackets hidden in the dirt and tracks. Erosion continues to uncover new rocks and create new obstacles, and the technology of increasingly larger off-road behemoths continues to push the boundaries of exploration--often off designated trail. The results of public usage on a county road--no matter how pristine the environment around it--are unavoidable.

And so far, mother nature, with the help of local government, is winning.

So what would Zinn say about this mess? How would he classify my attempts to write my own history on such an unstable battle ground? How can I find a footing to tell of my own tradition while, all around me, people are seeking bigger and badder ways oust the Devil and from his dark playground?

Unfortunately, like most of our recorded history, you'll find a simple page with a familiar formula: a winner, a loser, and a date. The stories we told from way in the back, our inspired retellings of small-town families and time-honored traditions, will fall silent as our attention is drawn toward the swirling back and forth between the two culprits in the foreground. And real history, we realize, is never that simple.