If I said that circumstances compelled me to buy my new Polaris Ranger UTV (that’s a Utility Task Vehicle) I’d be lying. Nobody really needs a UTV such as a Polaris or a John Deere Gator unless they own a working farm or a Montana ranch where distances aren’t measured in feet but in miles.
Having said that, the trails through our woods have recently fallen into profound disrepair. The gentleman who maintained them in exchange for allowing him and his family to ride their ATVs through there no longer does. It’s humbling how fast nature reclaims humanity’s handiwork. The downed trees blocking the paths and the luxuriating shoulder-high foliage wherever sunlight is allowed to linger reinforce my belief that contrary to what I may think and what the town tax collector insists, I don’t really own this place. I pay for the privilege of maintaining some semblance of order for the time being. My tenancy is provisional. Chaos, not order, is the natural state of things.
But walking through the woods for the first time in months I realized that heavy equipment — at least heavy for me — would be required to reclaim the state of grace that falls to those who can meander through the forest without tripping and falling or getting repeatedly stabbed by brambles. Wouldn’t it be great if there was some way to access the deep woods with all the accoutrements required to restore it? A chainsaw. Pruners. Perhaps a weed whacker. And a hammer and nails for the cool trail markers I just bought online.
Of course, I could carry them in on foot. But where’s the fun in that? Fortunately, I came into an inheritance recently. Not a huge one. Actually a rather small one. But it was sufficient to persuade me to purchase a barebones Polaris plus an optional canopy and rearview mirror. My first choice was a Gator. As a matter of fact, I wrote a New York Times story about Gators all the way back in 2002 as the must have accessory for weekend farmers. So I’ve had my eye on one for a long time.
But when I mentioned to somebody that I was coveting a Gator, his response was: “You know what they say about Gators? You pay for the paint job.” I don’t doubt that John Deere makes great equipment but there may be some truth to his words. It was partially the vehicle’s handsome yellow and green motif that attracted me. I mean, heck, I recently purchased my twin granddaughters a toy John Deere bubble blowing lawn mower for the same reason.
Unfortunately, when I visited our local Deere dealer they didn’t have any Gators available. Certainly not in my price range. And the electric one that I really wanted didn’t come with four-wheel drive. To describe our property as hilly would be an understatement. The last ice age really did a number on it. The undulating topography, especially after a storm that dumps lots of rain and downs trees, would chew up and spit out anything that didn’t possess Sherman tank-like qualities.
But then we visited friends that recently purchased a Polaris and it was love at first sight. Not only was it affordable but it came in the most becoming shade of green. It matched the forest. Its gas powered engine was a concession I’d have to make. An electric version would have cost more than twice as much. So I bought one the next day and it was delivered the day after that. Awaiting its arrival I felt giddy in a way I haven’t since I was a child on Christmas morning. For good reason. You may tell yourself that you require an off-road vehicle for chores but it’s really just an oversized toy.
Billionaires must feel the same way, only more so, the first time they step onto their private jets or ocean-going yachts. The cosmos even validated my purchase. I wanted to affix a plaque to the side of the vehicle honoring my late friend Aris Dervis whose bequest made the gift possible. As I was contemplating how to memorialize him — my daughter Lucy suggested calling the machine “The Whirling Dervis” — I realized that the last four letters of Polaris are ARIS. Obviously, this was meant to be. My wife Debbie proposed that we highlight those letters on the vehicle’s nameplate, perhaps in a tasteful slightly lighter shade of green.
Make no mistake. There’s a learning curve involved with driving one of these monsters. They’re more tractor than car. I started out slow, driving across the lawn and up the driveway. We also took our granddaughters for a joyride before I roused the courage to drive the Polaris, or should I say the Aris, into the woods. Things didn’t get off to a smooth start. I almost tipped over trying to ford a stream.
Then, rather than employ the weed whacker I brought along I bravely barreled through the underbrush until I confronted my first real obstacle, a downed tree. It had already done me the favor of splitting in half so I was able to make quick work of it with the chainsaw. Not so the next specimen. Judging by its circumference it must have been a couple of hundreds years old when it toppled. Discretion being the better part of something or other I tried to tool around it and regain the path on the other side.
Overshooting the trail — it’s sufficiently overgrown that it’s hard to even tell where it is — I found myself about to submerge the vehicle in a wetland. Performing something like a twelve-point turn I was able to resume the road but failed to start the chainsaw the next time a fallen tree stood in our way. Note to self: Buy an electric chainsaw soon. That obstacle required me to travel where no vehicle has ever gone before; at least not since the early 1930’s when the place was a working farm and the forest was fields.
This demanded some fancy footwork such as slipping between trees. I broke into a sweat, not because I feared that my family might not be able to find my body, but because I was terrified of scratching the sides of my new plaything. I suppose that the point of these off-road vehicles is to scuff them up. Their scars show they serve some manly purpose beyond being a very minor status symbol.
If my inaugural life-threatening foray behind the wheel didn’t prove that I was a city kid unworthy of such a vehicle, the fact that I was worried about a few cosmetic scratches certainly did. I was sufficiently traumatized that driving food scraps to the compost bin is as much risk as I’m willing to accept at the moment. After a period of recovery I’m confident that I’ll face the forest once again, though as likely as not on foot.
Ralph Gardner Junior is a journalist who divides his time between New York City and Columbia County. More of his work can be found in the Berkshire Eagle and on Substack.
The views expressed by commentators are solely those of the authors. They do not necessarily reflect the views of this station or its management.
