From the Archives: Jeep Wagoneer vs. Ford Ranchero vs. GMC Pickup vs. Dodge A-108

The current state of the world has us thinking about getting away from it all. This story from our September 1968 issue, featuring a Jeep Wagoneer, Ford Ranchero, GMC pickup, and Dodge camper, helped us scratch that itch. Hopefully it does the same for you–Ed. 

Something’s wrong. The moment you find yourself and four other virile, red-blooded males of unquestionable romantic heritage sitting innocently in the Corkscrew Saloon 187 feet below sea level at midnight in Death Valley discussing epistemology, theoretical physics and the insidious road to Beatty, Nevada, you know, just know, that this neat little progressive civilization of ours screwed up somewhere along the way.

Off-the-road? Remote? Bull. There we were, cursed with a four-wheel-drive Jeep Wagoneer, a rugged Ford Ranchero GT with a 6.4-liter V-8 engine, GMC’s new Golden West Special pickup prepared for the worst and carrying four trail cycles, and an Orange County-Modern Dodge A-108 camper van outfitted luxuriously by Travco with everything but palm bearers and milk baths… while outside, the Memphis Washboard Co. throbbed out songs about four-letter words, college kids from all over the state mobbed in to pinch each other and drop acid, and 40-year-old cadaverous couples, going on 80, sat around with ascots and intolerance on the siccaneous veranda of nearby Furnace Creek Inn—another Fred Harvey cyanosis sanatorium—oblivious to it all. No doubt John C. Portman was sweating away in some nearby suite, planning another Appletree Center to handle the tourist trade. Death Valley?

But we had to learn the hard way, getting ourselves all worked up before the trip by staring at the glistening hot chrome pipes of the bikes, the indomitable, monolithic sculpturing of the GMC, the total providence of the Travco Dodge, the sleek and rigid Ranchero, the high-pockets stance of the Jeep. But it was good. An honest escape from the noise and pressure of hot cars, from the choking smog of the city, from teeming humanity. “Recreational” vehicles, indeed!

THE MOUNT

Just entering them was a welcome escape—as though they were intentionally designed along plans diametrically opposed to those for the family car. No slithering under the steering wheel until you’re pressed procumbent against the floor like the rest of the super-cool slick kids of the pseudo-GT generation…no delicate steering to avoid potholes that might disintegrate the suspensions of lesser vehicles. Instead, you mount the ladder-like steps into the Dodge and GMC and climb onto firm vinyl seats that tower above the freeway. Your legs are straight down, your back is straight up, and you swing—not steer—those big horizontal steering wheels from side to side. For braking and accelerating you virtually stand on the pedals. They, too, are nearly vertical.

All vehicles fortunately had three-speed automatic transmissions, which resulted in a clumsy pedal arrangement on the Dodge that wouldn’t have been noticed with a gearbox: if you use your left foot for braking, it must be moved consciously around the steering column.

The GMC is very cramped for leg and arm room, but this, we eventually noticed after two days’ use and no fatigue, was more the effect of an awkward seating position than lack of space.

At the other extreme was the Ranchero—low, comfortable—in fact, the new Torino with a truncated passenger compartment. The interior is very stylish and designed for excellent fatigue reduction with plenty of leg and elbow room. It was the one vehicle that kept us in contact with the sporty set, but it did it pleasantly with such items as full carpeting, center console for the SelectShift Cruise-O-Matic, radio, and power disc brakes.

The Jeep Wagoneer was the compromise of the group. You still climb high onto the seat, and once there, you retain an impression of Olympian superiority very much like in the GMC. But the seats are soft, and successful attempts have been made to impart all the convenience and comfort of sedans with a tasteful dash and refined fabrics.

Chaos reigned as initial driving stints were chosen, and brains clicked in deciding whether it would be best to sacrifice some comfort by driving the Jeep on the freeways at the beginning in order to use the Ranchero in the mountains, or to utilize total comfort while one could.

It was almost time, and when someone draped the map over the fender of the GMC, the mere names of towns aroused primitive excitement from deep in the gut of every member of the expedition…

… Honby, Solemint…

…past Salt Wells and Dry China Lake to Mojave, we wound out of the city and were thankful for the solid shifting automatic transmissions on all vehicles. The Ranchero’s SelectShift Cruise-O-Matic, operated by a horseshoe handle on a center console, was quick and direct between shifts. It required some concentration in locating reverse, but that’s typical with any mechanism of the horseshoe type. The Dodge van upheld the singular reputation of TorqueFlite’s positive, immediate action, but it didn’t have the performance to utilize it. The Jeep lacked sufficient power to enhance quick shifts, so it simply lugged interminably onward, anxiously anticipating the time when it would undoubtedly receive more affection. The GMC was quite the opposite — too rugged for town, and it couldn’t disguise its muscle. Shifts were firm and definite, even loaded with four motorcycles.

…. Saltdale, Red Mountain, Borosolvay…the powerplants proved one thing: this is the age of specialization. Performance is provided only where you expect to use it most, and even then, it seems to be done strictly by gearing. Each vehicle had a V-8, but the only one with adequate performance for freeway driving was the Ranchero, and perhaps by grasping at straws—the GMC.

The Ranchero’s 325-hp engine had more than enough power both in traffic and on the open road. And even with all accessories operating, It did not overheat, though air conditioning is a painful and noticeable drag on power, completely—eliminating wheelspin from a standing start.

The GMC had only sufficient power to remain at the speed limit on hills. However, this lack of responsive performance at speed was a result of gearing, for its 325-hp (235 hp net) 6.5-liter engine put out 410 lb-ft of torque to provide power where it was needed later on in more demanding, rugged terrain.

Dodge’s 5.2-liter engine is a lightweight, flexible, high-torque powerplant that works well in a light sports-type vehicle designed for handling and response, but its 230-hp and 340 lb-ft. of torque were not quite enough to give the heavy Travco van an acceleration margin at freeway speeds.

An analysis of the Jeep’s performance is unfair at present, since our Wagoneer was equipped with last year’s American Motors 5.4-liter engine. Newer models use Buick’s 5.7-liter unit which should be more satisfactory in all aspects.

Traffic was still heavy, even with 150 miles of pathetic villages and lifeless, transitory topsoil between us and metropolitan Los Angeles. Still, the recreational vehicles lumbered on, the GMC now riding much smoother and very quiet with a full load, its 950 x 16.5, 8-ply tires with their thumb-deep tread humming uncomfortably on the pavement. Surprisingly, however, they built and insulated the cab for distance driving, and thus far it boasted the quietest interior and the one most conducive to conversation. With the bed empty, the GMC’s wide tires often set up disturbing modes of vibration, but now the only sounds and sensations were the air conditioner that could operate comfortably in the Mojave Desert at one-third its capacity due to the small cab, and the AM-FM radio with its impressive fidelity confirmed by tight cab construction.

Even on the road the pickup anatomy of the Ranchero is unnoticeable. Ride is still very sedan-like and its low profile adds to stability. As in the GMC, air conditioning for the small cab is more than adequate, regardless of temperatures. However, three sets of vibrations—hood, air conditioner and engine—gave us concern, though no problems developed even though the Ranchero began the trip with nearly 6,000 miles on the odometer.

The Jeep had no air conditioning, but as long as we were moving at freeway speeds, it was comfortable. By opening two windows on each side, plus the tailgate window, which is electrically operated from the dash, all available air could be captured. But it was obvious this vehicle was designed for duty, not pleasure. The ride was good, but still had that truck-like feel, the AM radio had poor fidelity, and wind noise was high with the windows open, and even worse with the windows closed.

The same with the Dodge. Fully equipped, it is ideally suited for stationary use. The ride is quite hard, even with a loaded weight of well over two tons, but at least the safety and handling virtues of its stiff suspension are well worth the sacrifice of a little comfort, especially with the Travco addition placing it 100 inches above the ground. Air conditioning is modestly effective for front passengers, even with scores of cubic feet of space behind them. As fatiguing as the driving position and instability of the vehicle may be, its stereo tape and AM-FM radio qualify it as a kind of Mobile Met, and running water, stove, refrigerator, beds, cupboards, table, drapes, etc., in the rear allay any fatigue-consciousness by reminding you that you can stop and live it up any time you so desire.

…. Argus, Trona….

…and we had now penetrated deep into the Mojave Desert. Gasoline stops were dictated by the GMC, its air conditioner and heavy cargo dragging economy down to as low as 8.0 mpg. On only one leg were we able to break 10 mpg, and then by only two tenths. At all other times, it hovered close to 9.5, while the Ranchero, Jeep and Dodge achieved as much as 14.0, 13.5 and 13.2 respectively.

Civilization was hours behind us, and the city’s fever was difficult to recall. Ah, virgin America, with nothing but endless salt beds, thousands of mesquite bushes breaking the magnificence of unoccupied space, amorphous hills of boulders, each one defaced by inane graffiti and high school initials.

It was mid-afternoon and the burning sky was beginning to lose its intensity from California’s ubiquitous mustard haze of smog. But at least there was space—unoccupied space permeated with sulfur dioxide belching from the arrogant anal-stacks jutting triumphantly above sterile, antiseptic laboratories of the Stauffer and Trona chemical works.

According to the map, an unpaved road led to the ghost towns of Ballarat, four miles from Highway 178 at the toe of the Panamint Mountains, and Panamint City, 12 miles further up the slopes. Through the dust—the blessed, glorious dust whose purity we savored as it drifted across hoods and gushed through the Jeep’s open windows—Ballarat materialized … eerily, briefly … and it was a genuine California ghost town, complete with unrecognizable, pathetic, decrepit carcasses of red-earth buildings that meant something back in 1807 when they rang with spirit and inspired men by their very presence.

Ballarat 1968: vague, vestigial remains of. Chris Wick’s Saloon, built by the man in 1817, were prostituted by a brazen, fresh modern sign blaring its name—a recent opportunist’s execrable attempt to exploit history. Across the street another crumbling foundation was filled to the brim with fetid trash. In the middle of it all, the new air-conditioned aluminum and concrete resort headquarters shone like a polished scalpel.

Behind town, the Panamint Range beckoned deliciously, and before we could unload the cycles and squeeze off four rounds from a .22, the sheriff/mayor/owner swaggered up, confiscated our Road Test Editor’s peace medallion and aimed us for Panamint City, far above.

Another couple of hours, a little strategy, and some food and water, and the Jeep, in four-wheel-drive-low, maneuvered easily up the narrow, 35-percent, rock-covered, rivulet-laced grade. The others, with the exception of the GMC loaded with motorcycles, simply lacked sufficient traction.

It was 18 miles to pavement, and the road race was on, led by the GMC as it hugged the rough, rolling, anguiform road. The Jeep was next, never at a disadvantage, and the Dodge van, towering above clouds of dust from those ahead, was able to follow as closely as it wished while dozens of appliances and utensils crashed with deafening percussion in accompaniment to Andy Williams’ “Moon River’ on the stereo tape deck. Only the Ranchero, which had started late, lagged deliberately behind—its sleek, low profile was swallowed by the dust and visibility was gone.

…Pinto Peak, Skiddo…

Death Valley. Aguereberry Point, Stovepipe Wells…the road through the Panamint Range provided a first opportunity to observe high-speed road-holding and handling behavior. From near sea level to almost a mile high, the GMC retained the lead. More than two tons, well-distributed, pressed its enormous tires to the pavement.

But it was terrain for which the Ranchero had been waiting, and with its limited-slip differential, heavy-duty suspension, power disc brakes and potent engine with 427 lb-ft. of torque, it could dive deep into turns, braking late, power slide around hairpins and exit from sweepers in a full, controllable drift—the only one of the vehicles able to do so. Because of its lighter weight, it handled better than many supercars. If it hadn’t been for the traffic, it could have overtaken the pickup within minutes.

But analyses aside, it was that lumbering, outrageous Travco Dodge that stole the hearts of the staff. It crashed and rattled around rough turns, and the driver was almost standing while spinning the steering wheel mercilessly. But the van hung on, and when we finally pushed it far enough to lift the inside rear wheel, it made the entire trip, the thousands of campers, even smog in Death Valley, worthwhile.

High-speed maneuvering, is not the Jeep’s forte. A high degree of camber at the rear wheels combined with the vehicle’s high center of gravity, causes some anxious moments on unpredictable turns.

From The Pan Into…

The temperature rose, and the cause was soon apparent, though the “Sea Level” sign was not the only reason. Death Valley… Ft. Lauderdale West… The New Scene… Lucifer’s anointed land of depravity and desolation, the one spot on earth for which he didn’t have to battle the Almighty. Surrounded by borax, salt pools and alluvial fans, and blanketed wall-to-wall with the cold alloys of trailers and campers belonging to every mitty-minded mini-man who can’t find liberty anywhere but 307 miles from his boss, Death Valley has become the new Mecca.

It is also ironic. The trail cycle set drives 307 miles for elbow room. The camper set drives 307 miles for privacy. The college kid drives 307 miles for a sexual sabbatical. Ergo: Death Valley Lives.

The sun was barely up on the second day when, with bated breath, we threw the cycles from the GMC’s bed—one Kawasaki 120 Road Runner, one Hodaka Ace 90, one 120cc B-105 Suzuki Bearcat, one 100cc Yamaha—and donned our genuine certified original Grant competition helmets that saved us several times from our inexperience. Soon, the valley reverberated with the “ree-e-e-e-e-e-n-nga ding ding ding ding” quartet of 2-stroke engines as four figures with shiny white domes rolled toward the rose-cotton horizon.

“Keep off” signs, “restricted area” signs, “motorcycles-not-allowed-in-this this – area” signs, ‘‘do-not- take-motorcycles-off-authorized-designated-paths” signs, led us over two-lane paving protected by a “speed limit 35 mph” sign—past a group of 26 chaperoned members of the Southwest Inyo County Audubon Society on the left, 14 members of the Association for the Preservation of Ordovician Disconformities to the night, and a flurry of aging Supporters of the Herbal Beauty of Pahrump Valley a few hundred feet farther”

At least two choices remained. We could ride 1 ½ miles to Zabriskie Point and shoulder our way through throngs of parents who left their kids bored and bawling in station wagons and campers to walk to the edge and gaze excitingly upon thousands of square miles of borax, salt pools and alluvial fans, or we could follow the endless queue of vehicles a full mile off the highway along the authorized designated official “scenic trail,” paved with sand and more wore tac shielded mankind from misdeeds by its strictly enforced, well-regulated one-way traffic.

We chose both and broke the law besides. One by one we slammed the cycles into low gear and _ sadistically ripped up the unauthorized non-designated desert hillsides. The Kawasaki and Hodaka screamed loudest and rode roughest but went farthest because they were the only ones connected to trail sprockets, while the Yamaha and Suzuki contented us with comfort, quietness and fatigue free touring.

Accompanying us for the day was the Dodge camper, its refrigerator loaded with ice and beverage, its reservoir topped with water, and its air-conditioned living area affording a comfortable retreat from the 100-degree smog-filtered sunlight and desperate vacationers outside. Any of the other vehicles could have penetrated deeper into wilderness, but Death Valley’s restricted lands rendered this advantage void.

Reasons For Being

Opinions were beginning to form. The GMC was most suitable for carrying trail cycles and passengers in reasonable comfort; the Dodge van promised existence under all conditions, even though none of the bikes would fit inside; the Ranchero was by far the most versatile, able to haul two bikes to the hills during the day and two lovers to a semi-formal party at night, and still receive plenty of admiring comments; and the Jeep was the only one capable of penetrating inviolable areas.

Since nothing was allowed off the authorized, designated roads, the four-wheel-drive of the Jeep was not needed. But inspiration from the prior day’s experience when the Jeep had ground its way up the Panamint Mountains, had infused our blood. With spirits high, we headed for Stovepipe Wells 22 miles away to romp and play in the ephemeral sand dunes.

… According to reliable sources, the sinister “do-not-leave-designated-road” signs surrounding the dunes were what provoked the third day’s notorious action: early in the morning the roads were already rife with travelers, so again we packed the Dodge’s refrigerator with ice and followed the mindless cortege, led on by signs into Golden Canyon, Artist’s Drive, Devil’s Golf Course, down a borax road into the Black Mountains where fawning pawns of progressivism could walk a quarter of a mile to stand beneath an ersatz natural bridge whose beauty is desecrated daily by thousands of feet that scrape its surface, by hundreds of hands that carve indelible names in its sides.

“Do-not-drive-beyond-designated-parking-area,” threatened the sign. But the reason was clear, and this time legitimate. If the Ranchero or Dodge had left the road, they would have submerged axle-deep into soft gravel and sand, or pierced their pans on jagged boulders that filled the valley winding beneath the bridge. The GMC, with its wide tires, had sufficient buoyancy but not enough traction.

But for three days the Jeep had ached for this opportunity. We kicked the four-wheel-drive lever and dove into the canyon, spraying rocks on all sides while hiking sightseers plastered themselves against the cliffs and shrieked forbidding threats. “Hey, that’s against the law!” “You’re not supposed to leave the authorized, designated areas!” “Ya oughta be reported to the Rangers!”

Our eyes were glazed, our palms perspired from the grip, and the saliva of ecstasy oozed from the corners of our banzai sneers. For a full half-mile, we plowed through the canyon, the Jeep growling and churning, sometimes almost faltering, but we rode it out to the very end. It conquered nature. We conquered Man. Fulfillment.

As if unrequited, the wind followed us home…Baker…Barstow… blowing with such fury that the top-heavy Dodge was tossed playfully from lane to lane on the freeways, and twice the Ranchero’s hood was loosened from its latch. But we could not be delayed by petty problems. We had done it…met the challenge… rather made our own… and won.

. . . Outside, the deluge of campers and trailers poured profusely into stark, uncontaminated hinterlands—mankind’s last outpost of solitude and freedom.

	Travco Dodge A-108	Ford Ranchero GT	GMC Pickup	Jeep Wagoneer
MANUFACTURER’S SUGGESTED RETAIL PRICE*	$2,500 ($18,995)	$2,964 ($22,521)	$2,447 ($18,593)	$4,041 ($30,705)
PRICE AS TESTED*	$5,900 ($44,830)	$4,012 ($30, 484)	$4,161 ($31,616)	$4,782 ($36,336)
EQUIPPED WITH	318-cu-in V-8, Torque-Flite automatic transmission, air conditioning, stereo tape, AM-FM radio, power steering, power brakes, heavy-duty suspension	390-cu-in V-8, air conditioning, SelectShift automatic transmission, power steering, power brakes, radio, limited-slip differential, center console	396-cu-in V-8, automatic transmission, air-conditioning, power brakes, power steering, Golden West Package, limited-slip differential, tinted glass, tachometer, radio, heavy-duty suspension	327-cu-in V-8, automatic transmission, radio, heavy-duty tires, limited-slip differential, power steering, power brakes, power tailgate window.
DISPLACEMENT	318.1 cu in/5,213cc	390.1 cu in/6,392cc	396.0 cu in/6,489cc	326.7 cu in/5,354cc
POWER (SAE GROSS)	230 hp @ 4,400 rpm	325 hp @ 4,800 rpm	325 hp @ 4,800 rpm	250 hp @ 4,700 rpm
TORQUE (SAE GROSS)	340 lb-ft @ 2,400 rpm	427 lb-ft @ 3,200 rpm	410 lb-ft @ 3,200 rpm	340 lb-ft @ 2,600 rpm
COMPRESSION RATIO	9.2:1	10.5:1	10.3:1	8.7:1
TRANSMISSION	3-speed automatic	3-speed automatic	3-speed automatic	3-speed automatic
TURNS LOCK-TO-LOCK	3.8	4.6	4	4
TURNING DIAMATER CURB-TO-CURB	37.0 ft	42.0 ft	43.8 ft	38.0 ft
BRAKE TYPE	Power Drums	Power Front Disc; Rear Drums	Power Drums	Power Drums
TIRE AND WHEEL SIZES	8.15 x 15 in	7.35 x 14 in	9.50 x 16.5 in	7.75 x 15 in
REAR AXLE RATIO	3.55:1	4.09:1	4.10:1	3.31:1
WHEELBASE	108.0 in	113.0 in	127.0 in	110.0 in
LENGTH x WIDTH x HEIGHT	189.0 x 78.6 x 100.0 in	203.9 x 59.8 x 54.4 in	200.5 x 77.8 x 74.5 in	183.7 x 75.6 x 65.0 in
GROUND CLEARANCE	7.3 in	6.5 in	11.6 in	11.0 in
CURB WEIGHT	3,950 lbs	3,680 lbs	4,035 lbs	3,816 lbs
CARGO AREA MAX L x W	N/A	79.8 x 51.6 in	98.0 x 65.0 in	66.3 x 52.5 in
INSIDE HEIGHT	74.0 in	N/A	N/A	39.5 in
SLEEPING CAPACITY	4-6 persons	2 persons	2 persons	2 persons
FUEL CAPACITY	23 gal	20 gal	22 gal	20 gal
MILEAGE RANGE	10.5-13.2 mpg	10.2-14.0 mpg	8.0-10.2 mpg	10.6-13.5 mpg

The post From the Archives: Jeep Wagoneer vs. Ford Ranchero vs. GMC Pickup vs. Dodge A-108 appeared first on MotorTrend.

from MotorTrend https://ift.tt/2ELLvy9
via