My ride was a sneeringly powerful, sporty blue Can-Am Commander Limited 1000. I was almost to the top of the pitch when the rear left wheel caught against an anvil-size rock. Every time I hit the gas, the machine erupted in a spasm?back wheels spinning and front wheels bucking wildly. This is it, I thought. I am about to somersault backward down the hill, ricochet off a pine tree, and tumble into my companions, waiting below in their own ROVs. I wonder if the rangers can get a medevac helicopter in here.
Kirk Swain, one of the most experienced riders in our group, shouted instructions from up ahead. "Let off the brake and drift back! Now adjust your angle and try again." So that's what I did?again and again. Finally, my front wheels found dirt and my back wheels bit into the rock. The beast launched forward and scrambled up the last few yards with ease. I guess that's what a 976-cc liquid-cooled two-cylinder can do when it's pulling a mere 1295 pounds?assuming, of course, there's an experienced driver behind the wheel. This was the steepest slope I'd encountered in my limited ROV experience, but we had upwards of 300,000 acres to explore in the eastern foothills of the snow-topped Cascade Range. I'd be getting plenty of practice.
ROVs are the high-adrenaline part of the category of off-road vehicles known as side-by-sides, named for their car-like seating arrangements. Recreational vehicles like ours look a lot like the utility vehicles used by many ranchers and farmers?cargo bed, short wheelbase, mud-splattered sides?but they are built with bigger engines and beefier suspensions. And, by the industry's definition, they can drive 35 mph or faster. The goal is pure fun, which includes everything from sand-dune carving to backcountry exploration. Prices can be steep, ranging from $10,000 to more than $20,000, yet riders don't seem to mind. Chris Brull, the marketing director for Kawasaki, likes ROVs because they've been moving off dealers' lots in big numbers over the past five years, while sales of motorcycles and ATVs have cratered. "It's the No. 1 fastest-growing segment of the business?clearly," he says.
Although they are sophisticated machines, ROVs are surprisingly simple to operate. Most have continuously variable transmissons (CVTs) with high- and low-speed ranges, and they all have standard steering wheels. Typically there's a button somewhere to select either four-wheel or two-wheel drive, and certain models even have differential controls. Basically, if you can drive a golf cart, you can drive an ROV?at least until the terrain gets tough.
Summer days are long in Washington state, with the sun rising at 5:30 in the morning and traces of light remaining until almost 10 at night. That gave us plenty of time to explore ravines and creeks, take in views of the Cascades, and fail to catch the brook trout feasting on midge flies in Lost Lake, while still lingering over kielbasa and bourbon in the evenings. The group included Andy Moler, my best friend since the sandbox, and some local riders who know the area well and instruct for the Recreational Off-Highway Vehicle Association (ROHVA). Throughout the trip, we rotated drivers among the ROVs we'd assembled for our test fleet: the Can-Am Commander, a Yamaha Rhino, a Polaris Ranger, an Arctic Cat Prowler, and a pumpkin-orange Kawasaki Teryx4, the only four-seater in the group, which we nicknamed the Schoolbus.
All ROVs have thick, heavily treaded tires, and wheel travel typically falls between 7 and 11 inches. Machines increasingly come equipped with direct or electric fuel injection, adjustable suspensions, power steering, and automatic engine braking, which kicks in when you let off the gas. That proves handy on descents, though it isn't always enough.
I proved that late one morning as we were coming off a ridge during a long ride. We'd briefly stopped to take in the view?the distant white peaks that make up the spine of the Cascades and closer slopes bristling with firs and bright green tamarack pines. From the top of the ridge, the trail takes an abrupt dive into an old logging plot spotted by new growth. The grade was the steepest descent we'd encountered so far?cross-your-fingers steep?and it was broken by a 3-foot drop halfway down the left side.
Swain went first to show us the line and then positioned himself to shout directions. When I rolled to the edge in the Schoolbus, I saw nothing but sky and mountaintops beyond the vehicle's hood. The rest of the group huddled around to watch. As I crept over the lip, I realized that engine braking wasn't going to cut it here. So I buried my foot in the brake and inched my way down, glancing from the trail to Swain, who was using his hands to guide me. Right, he gestured. Now left, and, finally, eeeasy, as I approached the drop-off. I slowly dipped the left front tire into the void and then felt my back tire follow. "Let it roll, let it roll!" Swain hollered as soon as both my tires were through. Jun Villegas, another pro, grabbed his inclinometer and laid it on the slope. "Wow," he said. "It's 45 degrees."
Our group had a Pro-to-Newbie ratio of about two to one, and Swain and the other veterans kept up a steady drumbeat of advice for the newer riders. First, they said, it's important to put your tires right on top of the biggest rocks. You can't straddle them the way you might avoid a pothole?otherwise, you risk getting the chassis hung up. Second, you've got to maintain your momentum when you're going over an obstacle, uphill, or through a patch of sand. But you also can't give the machine too much gas or the tires will just spin. This was the problem I had going up that one steep slope.
You would also be wise to take some extra gasoline into the backcountry. Manufacturers don't provide official fuel-economy numbers for ROVs, but we rode back out to the parking lot to refuel at one point, and I took the time to do some rough calculations. After approximately 23 miles, our vehicles' fuel efficiencies ranged from a best of 15.3 mpg (the Arctic Cat Prowler) to a worst of 9.2 mpg (the big four-person Kawasaki Teryx4). Not terrible considering the terrain, but still.
When we headed back out to climb Frost Mountain, a nearby peak, a ceiling of gray clouds had concealed the afternoon sun and rain seemed to be coming in. We didn't see any other riders as we sped along the trail. In fact, in three days of midweek riding, we ran into only one other person, a hiker who was busy prowling the treeline with binoculars in hand. On the weekends, though, mountain bikers, hikers, ATV riders, and other off-roaders like ourselves cross paths in Cle Elum Ranger District where we were riding and in other public lands across the country. Some visitors would prefer to see all off-road vehicles banned, and there have been a number of court battles over the issue. We were careful to minimize our impact by staying on marked trails, and we still saw plenty of wildlife?mule deer, at least a dozen elk, and even a blue grouse, sitting statue-still on a log.
At the bottom of Frost Mountain, the trees were sparse and big bunches of emerald-green grass carpeted the ground. The trail was scarred with miniature canyons caused by melting snow and rainwater runoff. I tried to avoid one of these shallow trenches but picked the wrong line. I was driving the Rhino, and soon its left-side tires were 2 feet deep in a gulch, with the vehicle leaning so hard to port it seemed beyond physics for it to stay upright. But I had a score of miles under my tires by now and knew enough to keep my right foot pressed down, even though every instinct told me to brake. Within about 20 feet, the ditch started to shallow out, and soon I was back on even ground. My shoulders relaxed and I remembered to breathe. Then I punched the gas and blasted up the ridge.
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