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The 80-pound engine part dangled from a deer hoist rigged between two ladders, swaying like a pendulum of regret.
I clutched the waxy yellow rope while Levi positioned the hunk of metal with the precision of a bomb squad technician.
This was not how I expected to spend Thanksgiving.
But let’s rewind to the moment we locked eyes with a 24-year-old Jeep Cherokee and made the kind of decision that every Jeep owner eventually makes.
“Yeah, we can probably fix that.”
The Jeep That (Almost) Got Away
We live in an RV park where people pass through like tumbleweeds.
Vehicles come and go. Some are million-dollar diesel pushers. Others are rusted-out Civics barely held together by duct tape and prayer.
So when a mint condition Jeep Cherokee rolled in behind a motorhome, Levi and I all but pressed our faces to the window.
It was too perfect.
This was the kind of boxy, built-for-the-apocalypse Jeep that should have been scratched, dented, and screaming for a new rear main seal.
Instead, it looked like it had just rolled off an auto museum floor.
And then it vanished.
When it came back, it wasn’t behind the motorhome anymore. It was on a rollback tow truck.
The Offer We Couldn’t Refuse
A “for sale” sign appeared in the window.
Levi’s “we don’t need another vehicle” stance lasted about four seconds before he got the seller’s number and started volleying texts.
- What’s wrong with it?
- Why couldn’t it drive itself back?
- How much do you want?
The answer was a cracked head.
The owner loved the Jeep, but engine surgery wasn’t in the budget. Shops wanted three grand to fix it with no guarantees.
“With the cost of repairs, the price I’d feel comfortable with would be an insulting offer.”
Instead of blocking his number, the seller responded.
“Try me.”
Final price was $2,500.
Even trashed Cherokees go for ten grand or more. This one had after market Bilstein shocks, a Mishimoto radiator, and a maintenance log so meticulous, I half expected to see a page documenting every time the Jeep sneezed.
We waffled on the decision for five minutes.
Then the RV park manager fell under the Jeep’s spell and offered to let us keep it in the overflow lot.
That was the last piece of the puzzle.
We handed over the moolah and the Jeep was ours.
Thanksgiving Plans? Cancelled. New Plans? Engine Surgery.
We had no garage.
No engine hoist.
No proper workspace.
What we did have was YouTube, blind confidence, and a desperate desire to not pay a repair shop.
After discovering a guy on YouTube so knowledgeable we started calling him “XJ Jesus,” Levi decided this was happening.
So we did what any reasonable people would do.
- Cleared space in our tiny RV lot.
- Gathered every tool we owned.
- Purchased an engine head.
- Prepared for mechanical warfare.
Thanksgiving morning, while the rest of America ate stuffing, we were knee-deep in engine grease, huffing brake cleaner fumes, and trying to convince a Jeep not to die.
Arizona, at least, gave us good weather.
Seventy degrees. Blue skies. A squadron of hummingbirds buzzing over our heads.
We worked for two days.
The RV park maintenance crew cheered us on.
The previous owner stopped by to inspect our parts.
We removed the old engine head and inspected it like crime scene investigators. The culprit was a tiny, hairline crack in the head gasket.
MacGyver Would Be Proud
Pulling the old head out was a matter of brute force.
Placing the new one was a different story.
Levi whipped up a hillbilly engine hoist using two ladders, a landscaping board, a game hanger, and some eye bolts.
The engine head dangled like a medieval guillotine while I held on for dear life, silently praying our sketchy contraption didn’t off me like a tyrannical king.
After some gentle swearing, we lowered the new head into place.
The Moment of Truth
With everything reassembled, it was time. Levi handed me the keys.
“Fire it up.”
The Jeep hesitated. Coughed.
Then roared to life.
The Flowmaster exhaust thundered. The oil pressure was perfect. The check engine light had the courtesy to mind its own business.
I grinned like a lunatic and gave my best Ace Ventura impression.
“She’s alive! Alivvvve!”
To celebrate, we took the Jeep on a sunset test drive.
Cacti blurred past. Dry desert air streamed through the open windows. The Sky Island mountains glowed in alpenglow.
And in that moment, everything felt right.
Sure, there was still a suspicious squeal under the hood. But one problem at a time.
Old cars are gonna old.
We Fixed It Our Damn Selves
Even with no shop, the right tools, or an official title like “mechanic,” we turned a daunting challenge into a story worth telling.
It wasn’t the holiday I imagined, but it’s one I won’t forget.
I may not have gotten any turkey, but I did get the satisfaction of going from “no professional will touch it” to “we fixed it our damn selves.”
And a classic that’s becoming more rare as time grinds on gets to stay on the road for another 24 years.
Next time, though, I’m insisting on pie.
Still Here? You Must Be the Human Equivalent of Well-Seasoned Cast Iron Pan.
Most people tap out early like tourists who underestimate Arizona heat. But not you. You’re built different. So why not pull up a camping chair with us on Substack?
