At 16, I dreamed of driving a small, zippy, shiny red car. Instead, my dad put me in a vehicle that looked more like a tank. Made by a tractor company – International Harvester – my gray and white Scout Traveler was one of the first SUVs designed for commercial use. I wanted wheels and independence, but I was young, so the boxy, two-door steel monster embarrassed me. Looking back, it was one of the best vehicles I’ve ever owned.
A sweet deal
Dad bought the Scout for $4,000 in 1980 from a guy who drove it on Texas beaches. A 1978 model, the seller told him this Scout was unique: a company working in Saudi Arabia special ordered 500 for desert use, and then reneged on the order. It had a Chrysler transmission, a Nissan diesel engine, and the International Harvester chassis and transfer case with four-wheel-drive assembly.
“The mechanics of this special order made the engine naturally aspirate,” said Dad, “That meant it was a sluggish, heavy vehicle – great for teenagers with lead feet because this Scout was never going anywhere fast.” My parents also liked that it had front bucket seats, and two back bench seats. The Scout fit our family of seven perfectly, plus offered a decent amount of cargo space in the hatch back.
An extreme maiden voyage
Our first big trek in the Scout was a family trip camping on the beach in Port Isabelle, Texas. After a beautiful day playing in the waves and soaking up the sun, we crashed for the night. My four brothers and I slept in a large pop-up tent, and my parents snoozed in a camper trailer hitched to the Scout. Just before dawn, my dad awoke to find our entire camp engulfed by more than two feet of water. Overnight, record rains and ocean tide had flooded the bay. The closest passable beach roadway was more than a quarter mile away.
The Scout had big balloon tires and oversized rims to dominated the dunes. Plus, it was four-wheel-drive, with an interlocking system that would make sure all wheels were turning in a bind. These features saved us. Dad started the engine, aimed for higher ground, and to his relief and delight, the sluggish, heavy Scout got the seven of us, along with our loaded down camper trailer, safely to higher ground.
It didn’t fit my idea of a girl’s car
At 16, the Scout was mine. I inherited it. I didn’t choose it, and I didn’t think it was cool. In fact, just starting it was a pain. The key ignition had gone out, so Dad taught me to open the hood and make the connection at the starter solenoid with a huge, 2-foot long screwdriver. I was horrified that people would see me lean into the hood, feet dangling, wielding the ridiculously large tool. As I made the connection, sparks would fly and the Scout would loudly, roughly, rumble to a start. Dishing out a final touch of humility, the cold diesel engine would fill a parking lot with thick clouds of heavy white smoke.
But none of that seemed to matter to my girlfriends who loved piling into the Scout and driving to surrounding small towns. Whether our destination was a high school sporting event, pasture parties held deep in rural ranches, or just cruising through town, the Scout delivered miles and miles of good, clean fun. As I honed my driving skills, I had a couple of fender benders that would’ve meant big trouble had I been in a little sports car. My dad didn’t even raise an eyebrow as I fearfully showed him damage from backing into a fence post one night. He simply hooked the bent bumper to a huge oak in our backyard and drove forward. Fixed.
We drove the wheels off
My brother Matt drove the Scout in college for a time. One day, he saw lug nuts fly, and then the front wheel just spun off. Skidding on the metal rotor, the heavy Scout remained stable as Matt pulled off the highway. He called Dad, and both expected to tow it home. “We found the wheel in the weeds, jacked it up and put it back on,” reminisced Matt, “I drove it another three years without any other repairs to that wheel.” The larger rims had become popular, and we can only guess someone loosened the lugs trying to steal them.
Surreal Scout stories Matt had a good friend, an older, well-travelled guy named Al Lavelle, who appreciated the rugged qualities of the Scout. Al told of driving one in 1969 through the Vietnam jungle when a grenade was lobbed into the seat next to him. Al jumped out of the moving vehicle and watched the grenade explode, blowing off the doors and shattering the windows. “I thought I was stuck,” said Al. But he made it back to camp in what was left of that Scout.
A legendary party mobile
International Harvester produced more than 500,000 Scout model vehicles over a 20-year period from 1960 to 1980. Parts can be hard to find, but Scout enthusiasts are not. People seem to just fall in love with them. I’ll never forget a lunchroom conversation about prom. My friends and I eagerly planned to pool our money to rent a limo. I sat in shocked amazement when the discussion ended with an excited vote to ditch the limo idea and cram four couples into my Scout.
Fond memories In the late 80s, the Scout was something of an icon for us five Van De Walle kids growing up in the small community of Castroville, Texas. A few of my brothers’ buddies even rebuilt a couple and pursued their own Scout adventures on our rural roads.
Today, when my brothers and I swap tales from our youth, the Scout is at often at the center. Old friends will ask, “Do y’all still have that old Scout?” The answer is yes. Even though my dad sold it years ago, the Scout still remains ingrained in our stories and memories of growing up. As it turns out, it was far better than any small, zippy, shiny red car.
