Mistakes Were Made: A 2001 Jeep Cherokee Project Covered in Red Flags

The steep sides of desolate northeastern New Mexico’s Capulin Volcano give off a prehistoric landscape vibe. Up top sits a picture-perfect crater, a reminder of Capulin’s last eruption about 60,000 years ago. It’s awe-inspiring—an apt metaphor for the oil and coolant eruption under the hood of the boxy, dark green Jeep Cherokee which I limp along U.S. Highway 64 in Capulin’s shadow. My goal: make it to an auto parts store in Raton, New Mexico. There are breathtaking landscapes between Raton and Capulin, but little else. My cell phone reads “No Service.”

The Cherokee’s temperature gauge hovers just above center, aided by below-freezing ambient temperatures. But there’s no avoiding what I soon discover: a milky substance under the oil cap and a bubbling coolant overflow tank. Oil and coolant slosh around together inside the Cherokee’s 4.0-liter inline-six. 

Who’s to blame? My mind races through suspects, but ultimately I accept responsibility. I ignored every bit of advice I’ve ever written about buying an old car, sight unseen, and driving it home.

Five Critical Tips For Buying a Car Sight Unseen (No, Really. They’re Critical.)

Let me preface the following by explaining that when it comes to Jeeps, I am a veteran. I have owned dozens of XJ-body (1984-2001) Cherokees. The oldest example was a spiffy ‘86 with a five-speed manual, a spare tire mounted to the liftgate, and, unfortunately, a lump of a General Motors carbureted 2.8-liter V-6 under the hood. The youngest is still in my possession: a very late-production 2001 unit that my parents bought new. With under 60,000 miles on the clock, it is as close to Concours-grade as an XJ gets. My Jeep resume reflects the many other Cherokees I’ve fixed up over the years and rehomed as my form of “garage therapy.”  

I also know a lot about buying cars sight unseen and getting them home. I’ve logged thousands of miles driving decades-old cars back to my home in Denver, Colorado, doing so without any serious hitches. Up to this point, I’d been successful because I asked sellers the right questions, performed inspections, and, ultimately, trusted my gut.

This adventure started innocuously enough. It was a typical evening of doom-scrolling used-car listings on my phone when one, located 600 miles away in Texas, caught my eye. I squinted through the fuzzy photos and studied everything from the Forest Green Pearl Coat paint to the Agate leather seats, noting no obvious modifications. The dealer posted the Jeep’s VIN, so I pulled up a build sheet. It checked a lot of boxes: a final-year model in top Limited trim with nearly all factory options, including the desirable high-riding Up Country suspension. I set a reminder to call the dealer the next morning.

The woman who answered my call said the Cherokee was having its oil pump replaced. That was the second red flag. The first was the fact that the Jeep was at a buy-here/pay-here lot, one with the kind of name designed to appear on the first line of a circa-1992 Yellow Pages. Both warning signs should have prevented me from pursuing further. The rest of the cars listed on the dealer’s Internet 1.0-style website were high-mile, decade-old pickup trucks and mid-size sedans. A seemingly mint Cherokee didn’t fit in. The word “repo” came up frequently in the dealership’s Google reviews. Think Danny DeVito in Matilda. 

Tip #1: Don’t act too eager

She promised to text me better photos of the Jeep once it was fixed. I tried not to sound excited, but y actions indicated otherwise. I called her first thing the next morning. And the next morning. I was a sucker. She knew it.

Tip #2: Ask for lots of good photos and a pre-purchase inspection

By the end of the week, she sent some lousy photos showing a dusty Jeep. She ignored a few specific requests, and I soon forgot that I’d asked for pictures of things like, oh, the engine. I believed her when she told me that the Michelin tires were good and that the paint was flaw-free. The CarFax report that I bought—because she kept “forgetting” to send one—showed one owner who serviced it at a Jeep dealership. I imagined a doting retiree who adored the Jeep until the nursing home staff gently took away their keys.

Tip #3: Have a backup plan  

She agreed to knock a few hundred bucks off the Jeep’s price and said she’d pick me up at a nearby airport a few days later. I booked a one-way flight, once again ignoring my own standards for best practice. I always suggest a refundable return flight—just in case. 

Tip #4: Pack the tools and parts you might need

My flight included a very short layover in Dallas, so I decided to pack light with a backpack and a single change of clothes. The Transportation Security Administration permits bringing some small tools, so I took with me a reversible screwdriver and a shop towel. That’s it. No wrenches, no ratchets, and none of the easy-to-replace parts that, if broken, could leave me stranded. A coolant sensor would be one example.

Tip #5: Don’t fall in love at first sight

Someone from the dealer picked me up and drove me to the Jeep, which was filthy inside and out, not to mention nearly out of fuel. There were tape remnants on the windshield from where, I later surmised, the previous owner had attached a “For Sale” sign. The roof paint was a bit blistered—a common period Chrysler problem. The tires were Michelins, as promised, but the rears were from 2007 and the fronts showed obvious signs of an alignment issue. On the bright side, it started right up, idled smoothly, and went down the road well. The oil was fresh, which, in retrospect, was another red flag since the dealer made few other efforts to spiff up the Jeep. 

I indicated my concerns about misrepresentation. The dealer countered with a weak offer to top off the gas tank. I looked out at the green Jeep, picturing it living a life of repeated repossessions. I had to save it, right? Plus, the sun was setting, the next flight home was 12 hours away, and I hate admitting failure.

Like a fool, I handed over a cashier’s check.

The Price for Turning a Blind Eye

The drive home started fine. But when I stopped for a late lunch about an hour in, I saw that the rear tires were disintegrating. A few phone calls later, I found a tire shop in nearby Amarillo with four all-terrains in stock. There went $800. By the time they finished up, the sun was setting, so I found a hotel and called it an early night.

The next morning was cold enough that I had to use my hotel key card to scrape frost from the windshield. The Jeep started right up, but the heater didn’t seem to be as toasty as before. Another red flag. An hour later, I stopped for gas at the Texas-New Mexico border and decided to pop the hood. Perhaps the coolant was a bit low, I thought.

I was right. I was also very wrong.

A milky substance under the oil cap. A bubbling coolant expansion tank. Sludge erupting from the radiator cap. As a self-professed Cherokee expert, I should have known better. DaimlerChrysler installed a slightly modified cylinder head on 2000 and 2001 Cherokees, which is prone to fracturing. When I picked up the Jeep, I didn’t bother to look to see if the engine had a replacement head. I had my answer.

The Jeep wasn’t running hot, so I weighed my options. It was another 300 miles home to Denver, but that also included climbing the relatively steep Raton Pass separating New Mexico from Colorado. Towing would be costly, and I was already financially deeper into the Jeep than I wanted to be. I hatched a plan to reward the 4.0-liter engine with head gasket sealant-in-a-bottle if it made it the next 90 minutes to AutoZone. If it got me that far, it was another 90 minutes to Colorado Springs and to my friend Aaron, who happens to be a vintage Jeep mechanic. Lyft could handle the final leg. 

The Cherokee fired up as if nothing was wrong. This was the last time it would give me this false confidence.

Pour In The Head Gasket Sealant

After whizzing by Capulin, I roll the Cherokee into the AutoZone parking lot and bolt inside. Myriad bottles promising cures to any mechanical malady tempt me with flashy labels. Figuring this wasn’t the time to save a few bucks, I buy the most expensive head gasket sealant. I pour it in, let the Jeep idle, and then top it off with fresh coolant. While following the directions closely, I cannot help but remember that my problem is almost certainly a metal fracture and not a failed gasket.

The Jeep starts, but it idles poorly. A check engine light flickers on. I ignore it and head up Raton Pass. The section of Interstate 25 that carves through the Sangre de Cristo mountain range is just demanding enough to demand a downshift or two from a car with decent power. The Cherokee’s automatic transmission pops from fourth to third before briefly lunging its way into second. Just as that happens, the check engine light begins flashing. Oh no. I back off the throttle, flip the hazard lights on, and slow down to around 40 mph, figuring maybe things will get better once I can coast down from the summit into Colorado.

This turns out to be one of the few wise decisions I make. The check engine light stops flashing, and the Cherokee seems to run better. I ease it back up to the posted limit and train my sights on Aaron’s shop in Colorado Springs.

Soon, my bladder reminds me of the bottle of water I downed at AutoZone. I pull off the highway at a gas station and turn off the XJ’s ignition. Steam pours from under the hood, so I open it and am greeted by a grisly mess of coolant, oil, and head gasket sealer. I let it all cool down for half an hour and then start it up. It cranks and cranks, finally catching and idling like a bucking bronco.

I still have 45 minutes of driving ahead, though now I figure I can always call a tow truck.

Back on the highway, the Cherokee shows no signs of distress aside from a now-permanent check engine light. The 4.0-liter is smooth at speed, with good reserve power.  I clench up and trudge into Colorado Springs, dreading the low-speed mile or so I have to drive to reach Aaron’s shop. The rough idling, misfiring Jeep is not happy as it sits at a few traffic lights, but I make it. Aaron claps when he sees me. 

The Jeep Is Alive. What Next?

A couple of weeks later, I am back in the Jeep—this time with a new head gasket and a recommendation from Aaron to change the oil after 500 or so miles. 

“All that sealant is still working its way around in there,” he says. “How much did you pour in there, anyway?” 

The illusion of the decent deal I imagined for this Jeep is shattered. Now, I must debate how far I am willing to go with the thing. On paper it ticks so many boxes, and its Achilles heel—the head—has been addressed. Do I put in the work to make it into a top-shelf Cherokee? Well, I made it this far, and it already has a name: Project Capulin.