Roll past the subdivisions and vape shops east of Vancouver and you hit a patch of pure American weirdness. You walk in and it smells like sunbaked vinyl and old oil. All American Classics began in the ashes of a family dairy, swapped cows for chrome, and now sits as a seven-acre shrine to the age of Detroit dominance. At their peak, they filled twenty acres with over a thousand cars, every decade from the thirties to the nineties rumbling under the moss and dust.
Property taxes hacked their empire nearly in half, forcing the crew to crush hundreds of forgotten Chevys and Oldsmobiles. What survived feels handpicked for attitude. It is more than a junkyard; it is a time capsule. Rows of Camaros from every generation, most looking like a hard night out. An actual 1960 Oldsmobile Cutlass, rusted through, set for the infamous yard crusher named Bertha staff say if you want to remember, you better act fast.
Wander deeper. You discover a 1959 Ford Fairlane Skyliner with its wild retractable roof, parked right by a ‘39 Buick, surrendered by a grandson who realized some restoration dreams die hard. Some finds are heartbreakers a car stored for forty years, clean whitewalls but no hope left, waiting for a second life or to go out with a smoky crunch on YouTube.
Most yards are places for parts or scrap. All American Classics is where nostalgia and extinction shake hands. The staff know which cars will pull collectors from three states away and which will end up on Bertha’s stage. Every row here is a film strip, each car a fading hero waiting to see if someone cares enough to rescue it.
They pivoted to survive: smashing rare cars for the internet’s approval, hawking NOS parts new old stock stashed since the sixties, now shipping worldwide. The business has outlasted booms, crashes, and changing fashions by loving every hulk and fossil that comes rolling through the gates. All American Classics is Vancouver’s stubborn outpost for burnt rubber history and last-chance legends.
