Paul J. Driscoll, Death of the Defender

n Friday, January 29th of 2016, the last Land Rover Defender rolled off the assembly line in the Midlands town of Solihull, England. The demise of this legendary line of four-wheel drive workhorses marks a significant milestone in automotive history.

The world seems just a bit smaller and a lot softer for it.

Land Rover, now owned by the Indian car maker, Tata Motors, continues to make its line of luxury SUVs—the Range Rover and the smaller, more affordable Discovery LR4s, among other models. Oh, the company almost immediately announced that the Defender would return—in some fashion or another. As I write this, the release of the neo-Defender is imminent, although almost three years overdue. We learn from the company that the new model—built in Slovakia— will be “respectful of its past, but not harnessed by it.”

Gone forever is the true utilitarian rig known the world over.

We all know these cars from newsreels of United Nation vehicles and the iconic images of African safari touring rigs. These are Land Rover Defenders, or their predecessors, the Land Rover Series vehicles. That old car on the cover of whatever outdoor gear and clothing catalog is lying around your coffee table? Almost always an old Land Rover.

Rovers, as they are almost universally known, are uncompromised vehicles of adventure and wild places. At one time in the 1970s, the company claimed—not unrealistically—that the first motor vehicle the majority of the world’s population laid eyes upon was a Land Rover. Rovers were early penetrators of the African, South American, Australian, and Central Asian interiors. For better or worse, wherever Brits were to be found—from the Caribbean to the Ganges, from Lahore to Nairobi—Land Rovers followed. O The author’s 1965 Series IIA Land Rover. The hole in the bumper accepts the hand-crank rod.

No other vehicle could be so realistically fixed in the field as a Land Rover. Backup hand-crank starting was standard up into the 1970s—just like the old Ford “Tin Lizzies.” Aluminum alloy body panels do not rust and are soft enough to pound out major dents with river rocks. Exposed rivets on the body panels—now a retro-chic feature on some American-made trucks—remained proudly displayed over several decades. The electric windshield wiper motors could be overridden and operated by hand if necessary. How practical is that?

The most common engine was an underpowered gasoline four-cylinder that could be timed and tuned to run on hangover saliva. But the company was (and remains) respected for its diesel power plant engineering. The drive trains through the late-1960s had to be double-clutched in the low gears, just like classic Italian sports cars. Early spartan-like Land Rovers featured innovations such as on-the-fly engagement of four-wheel drive and later full-time allwheel drive. Most importantly, though, these hand-made Land Rovers were just plain fun to drive, blending British sports car moxie with get-you-thereand-back reliability.

Those early vehicles won international favor among scientists, explorers, and engineers, but also among writers and artists. Ernest Hemingway, the young Stephen King, and Tom McGuane all drove Land Rovers. Bob Marley owned one. So did Robin Williams. And Steve McQueen. The warbling guitar hero John Mayer keeps one on his Montana spread. Edward Abbey wrote about them and marveled that a man with a couple hundred feet of rope and a Land Rover could “accomplish goddamned near anything.” A Land Rover starred in the classic 1980 Indy movie The Gods Must Be Crazy.

Those Rovers trace lineage back to the diminutive American military Jeep, which was shipped, well, by the shipload into England during the build-up to D-Day. As the war wound down, the thieving Brits expressed interest in building a rugged four-wheel drive vehicle of their own, primarily for the export market into the British Empire. The prototype vehicle was famously mounted on the frame of an Army Jeep. Designed and built by Maurice Wilkes— who had worked for a couple years at General Motors—the Rover featured power take-offs front and rear, at least initially to operate farm machinery. Aluminum was selected for the body panels and driveline components because in post-war England a lot of big military aircraft was being scrapped while steel remained scarce.

By the early 1950s, Land Rover had gained a reputation for rugged durability and—not unlike the Volkswagen Beetle—a distinctive appearance, availability and interchangeability of parts, and a worldwide support and distribution network.

Chris McGowan

Exposed rivets on the body panels—now a retro-chic feature on some American-made trucks—remained proudly displayed over several decades.

“Dad, there’s a guy on TV who drives a car just like yours.”

I was preparing dinner one evening in the mid-1980s for my six-year old daughter at a friend’s house, which featured satellite-dish television. Curious, I ducked into the den to watch my first episode of In the Wild with Harry Butler, a PBS staple of the era. Butler, a naturalist and field biologist, was known by my daughter as the “bugs and snakes guy,” and indeed, each episode featured Harry and his trusty Land Rover 109 exploring the flora and fauna of the remote Australian interior.

Since I was living in the hinterlands of southwest Montana at the time, I had sought out a vehicle that would get me back and forth to my day job in town, which seasonally required four-wheel drive. Land Rover had recently abandoned the U.S. market in a kerfuffle over safety and environmental considerations, such as air bags, padded dashboards, and emission controls. In the U.S. market of the time, new Land Rovers cost up to twice the price of contemporary Jeep CJs

Looking back on it, though, that rig has carried me all over the West, outlasted two marriages and a covey of girlfriends. Over thirty years and roughly two hundred thousand miles, I have replaced or rebuilt four carburetors, three generators, two water pumps, one clutch, a front-end, all four leaf-springs and shackles twice, and several oil seals and bearings.

and Wagoneers, International Scouts, early Ford Broncos, and the derivative Toyota Land Cruisers. The used market for Rovers was surprisingly affordable, though. I took the plunge and bought a used 1965 Land Rover Series IIa from a widow who had raised three boys using it. My recollection is the price tag was slightly south of three thousand dollars.

The original dealership decal read: Knievel Imports, Butte, Montana. Yeah, that Knievel. Evel’s family ran a new car dealership that imported Land Rovers, among other cars. There were probably four or five Land Rover dealerships in the state at one time. Today, the closest is in Spokane.

Looking back on it, though, that rig has carried me all over the West, outlasted two marriages and a covey of girlfriends. Over thirty years and roughly two hundred thousand miles, I have replaced or rebuilt four carburetors, three generators, two water pumps, one clutch, a front-end, all four leaf-springs and shackles twice, and several oil seals and bearings. Since day one, it has left tiny oil splotches wherever it has been parked for more than a few hours. It has stranded me exactly one time, on pavement, and was inconsequential in that a friend accomplished a field repair the next day using a shard of aluminum beer can to bridge a burnt voltage regulator connection. That fix to get me through the day lasted about three years.

Not unlike the British Empire, Land Rovers are simply built to last, or perhaps more accurately, they’re both built to die very slowly. It’s been estimated (by the company, of course) that more than 75 percent of all Land Rovers ever made remain roadworthy.

When Land Rover introduced the Defender badge in 1991, many of the Luddite, old school Series owners were skeptical, myself included. The Defender

featured a coil-spring suspension all around. Each unit had full-time allwheel drive powered by either an aluminum block V-8 petro, modified from a retired Buick tooling, or a long-stroke diesel. Some of these early power plants kicked out about a hundred horses. (By comparison, a new Subaru can approach twice that power). With big markets in desert climates of the Middle East and elsewhere, the Defender did not initially offer air conditioning or even a car-radio, which according to legend was because Land Rover couldn’t figure out how to make either of them effectively leak oil.

The Defender proved over time to be as capable and popular as its predecessor Series Land Rovers. It became the international fleet-vehicle of choice for the United Nations and many law enforcement agencies, oil and gas exploration companies, scientists and geologists, and utilities operating in remote places.

Unfortunately, imports into the U.S. market were extremely limited due to Land Rover’s refusal to install emission control devices, mileage improvement systems, and safety features onto the Defender. (To be clear, owners of the early Series rigs routinely open beer bottles on the all-metal dashboards. Further, a Land Rover Defender, like most fun cars, is not purchased on the basis of high mileage, low emissions, or safety.)

A portion of the U.S. market would be addressed by the Range Rover and later the Discovery and LR3s and LR4s— nice cars in many regards, I suppose, but not even close to the cachet and capability of the crew-cut, muscular Land Rover Defender. Consequently, most Defenders in the U.S. today are “gray market,” which is to say imported from Canada, Central America, or other Defender-rich markets. Many served time in military or fleet-vehicle sectors abroad. Veterans of Desert Storm and the post-911 campaigns in Iraq and Afghanistan know well these military Defenders used by the British and other allies. The Defender also figures prominently on the wide screen in movies such as the recent James Bond and The Fast and the Furious franchises.

A well-used Defender from the late 1980s or ’90s runs upward of twenty thousand dollars in the U.S., if you can find one. In the face of such multi-decade successes and solid value, why would Land Rover discontinue the Defender?

I dunno. Go figure.

As with all other makers of sport utility vehicles, Land Rover had long ago joined the race toward comfort, highway performance, and up-scale styling and luxury offerings. Some claim the company initiated that race with its Range Rover offerings and perhaps the finish line had been crossed.

Over recent decades, the Defender had become something of a neglected sideline. That contract with the United Nations? Long gone. Fleet Land Rover slowly evolved from the Series models into the Defender, as evidenced by this 1984 ex-Canadian military unit that lacks only the nameplate, which was not applied until 1991.

purchases by governments and international businesses are in the rearview mirror. To paraphrase a Defender owner and world traveler, “Land Rover may have opened up all those remote continents, but Toyota is maintaining them.” The company lost four billion dollars in the U.S. in the fourth quarter of 2018. Whatever profile and ability the new Defender assumes, it’s got a rough road in front of it.

Perhaps one day some capable car company will once again offer a reliable four-wheel drive vehicle with minimal electronics, hand-operated windows and open-air venting, big torque rather than raw horsepower, and sheer exuberance in the driving experience.

In the meantime, Land Rover may be offering the next best thing. The company opened up a portion of the Solihull plant in 2016 to a “Heritage Restoration Programme.” Old Series Land Rovers and Defenders—all two million of them ever built—can be sent in and fully restored at the factory, in some instances by the same workers who assembled the originals, according to the company.

Until mine is ready for a makeover, I’ll just hang onto the fifty-year old dreadnaught. I was a young man when I bought the thing and my assessments may be skewed by the passage of years. The tires seem good, the brakes fair. The engine’s tired and a valve clangs around upon startup. Still, I sometimes park it in front of a local brewery or tavern where young men in particular seem to think it’s good luck to touch the grill emblem. On rare occasions I’ll light up a Camel straight and ask if any of them would care to try starting the Rover using the hand crank. That always raises a crowd and is good for a few rounds of beer. (“Hey! There’s an old guy who says he can start his truck with a stick!”)

There’s another reason to keep the Rover on the road, I suppose. Truly, a stinking old truck reeking of ninetyweight oil may be seen by many as nothing more than an environmental nightmare—a ridiculous vestige of a past best left behind. But that call to adventure and wild places remains and the proper vehicle to get one there and back still seems a big part of the romance.

Chris McGowan

Paul J. Driscoll is a third-generation Montanan. He has lived and worked throughout the West as a newspaper reporter, editorial cartoonist, technical writer, editor, illustrator, and website manager. He currently lives outside of Helena where he develops illustrations, natural history articles, and essays for regional and national publications. His writings and illustrations have appeared in the online journal New West and the Washington Post National Edition. A collection of natural history essays is due out in late 2021. He has owned a 1965 Series IIA Land Rover for almost 35 years and estimates that many of its 250,000 miles have been accumulated on two-track dirt roads to nowhere.