Life in Maine

According to my own personal gauge of worthwhile activities, a true "adventure" must consist of the following:

It has to be something I haven't done before. An air of mystery as to what one can expect is paramount in adding to the sense of adventure.
It has to offer at least a modicum of danger - whether perceived or real.
It has to be difficult enough to achieve so as to exclude the vast majority of the population from even trying it.

The Baxter "adventure" clearly met all three of these criteria. The primary reason I hadn't made it to Baxter in the winter was because they have strict rules and regulations about who is allowed to enter the park in the winter, what they can do, and where they can go. The weather can quickly turn deadly in and around mountains in the winter, and the rangers have no desire to go searching for lost hikers or, worse yet, dead bodies. Every trip must have a "trip leader" who is certified in, among other things, CPR and first aid, and, I think, wilderness survival. Our trip leader, Mark, has been doing this for many years and had all the credentials, so he was our "in."

In addition to being in Baxter during the winter, the other "firsts" on this trip for me were going to be pulling a sled while x-country skiing, and snowshoeing. And so, after work on a Thursday night, me, my co-worker Dave, his 15-year-old son Ben, Dave's friend Mark, and Mark's 14-year-old son Ethen headed north to the small town of Shin Pond to stay at an inn for the night.

The next morning we arose bright and early, had a hearty breakfast, and headed into the "meat" of our adventure. We didn't make it too far. About a mile from the inn, I felt my SUV handling funny, so I pulled over to check it out and, indeed, I had a flat tire. Not a good way to start the day, and an even worse way to start my birthday. There was still enough air in it to hobble back a half mile to a general store in Shin Pond, only to discover that they didn't have an air hose. So, we got out and proceeded to change the tire. Or, rather, attempt to change the tire. Turns out once I got the truck jacked up and the lug nuts off, the dang wheel wouldn't budge. So we went inside and asked for a hammer and they were happy to oblige. The hammer didn't do the trick either. So we went back inside to see if they had anything more robust. They did - his name was Jerry and he came with a sledgehammer. He not only got the wheel off, but he took it to his shop across the street, plugged up the hole, filled it with air, and wouldn't take so much as a nickel from me. They are good folks up there in Shin Pond.

And so, after an annoying delay, we were able to continue on the planned portion of our adventure. After about a 12 mile drive from Shin Pond, we arrived at the winter north entrance to Baxter. From here on in, our only mode of transportation would be skis and snowshoes.

Phase one of our adventure was the ski in - 11 miles of ups, downs, and flats that, thankfully, would take place on trails which had been broken by snowmobiles. The first nine miles of the trail was on the "Perimeter Road" on which snowmobiles are permitted. The last two miles would be on a trail where snowmobiles were barred, but which was "groomed" nonetheless by the park ranger's snowmobiles.

My first task was to acquaint myself with the sled on which I would be carrying all my gear for the weekend. The sled was a bright orange, molded plastic model that is really designed for sledding down hills, but which makes a very capable "pulling" sled because it is relatively wide. On it, I carefully placed a small cooler full of food and drink, all my clothes, a sleeping bag, snowshoes, and a full compliment of winter gear. I also carried a small backpack on my back for water and food for the trip in. Using a carabiner, I attached the sled's rope to a loop on my backpack, and I was on my way. Dave and Mark also towed sleds, which the boys skied in with large backpacks, but no sleds.

The term "skiing," I soon found, is a bit of a misnomer when pulling a sled behind you. "Slogging" is a much more apt description. Instead of the rhythmic kick and glide that one typically uses when x-country skiing, I found myself shuffling down the trail, the sled stubbornly tugging me from behind. This was somewhat tolerable on the flat sections of the trail. On the uphill portions, it was just plain difficult. And on the downhill sections - well, let's just call it interesting. Whereas Dave and Mark had the requisite aluminum pole rigging on their sleds to keep them from bashing into their legs on the downhill sections, I did not. As a result, the sled would either bash me in the legs (big surprise), go through my legs and lead the way, or zip out to one side or the other and appear to be racing me down the hill. The challenge through all of this, of course, was to keep me, and the sled, upright. Depending on the slope of the hill, I handled the challenge with varying levels of success.

About two miles into the skiing, the bad omen set forth by the flat tire earlier in the day gave way to an unlikely good omen. I will admit that I'm not a big fan of snowmobiles. This is primarily because they are noisy and smelly and generally diminish the wilderness experience when you encounter them while out skiing. But I have ridden them before and will admit that they are fun. And, on this day, at least, I felt quite fortunate to come across one. A fellow camper had passed us on a snowmobile heading out earlier, and now he was headed back towards the campground to retrieve some more of his gear. He was pulling a large wooden sled-type rig for hauling his gear, and on his trip back in, the rig was empty.

At the start of the skiing, I was actually looking forward to the challenge of pulling the sled in to the campground. That, however, was before I had actually experienced the "pleasure" of pulling. So, it was only with a slight bit of hesitation that I accepted the snowmobiler's offer to put my sled on his hauling rig so that he could take the seven miles or so to the next trailhead. It was my birthday, after all - I was entitled to some special treatment. Mark did the same, but Dave was not as lucky as two sleds were all that the snowmobiler had room to carry.

Freed from sled enslavement, x-country skiing once again became pleasurable. The weather was perfect - temperature in the teens and partly cloudy. And as it turned out, we all took turns hauling Dave's sled, so we all ended up with about equal parts of skiing freedom and hauling torture.

When we reached the trailhead for the trail to the campground, our sleds were waiting for us. The good news was that we didn't have to cart them to this point. The bad news was that the last two miles where almost all uphill. My "warm-up" on Kilimanjaro the month before prepared me well, however, and I was able to drag the sled to the cabin without too much residual anguish.

In the summer, South Branch campground can accommodate probably upwards of 100 people or so. In the winter, only a single cabin is open. So, for the next three days, the five of us would have the area all to ourselves. The cabin is rather new, having been built in 1998. It consists of a front room with a picnic table, woodstove, and food preparation area, and two bedrooms in the back, each containing four bed platforms. Nothing fancy, but certainly a lot more cushy than sleeping in a tent during the middle of winter.

Ethen and Ben, unburdened by sleds, made it to the cabin first and unsuccessfully attempted to get the woodstove going. I arrived next and managed to have things burning pretty well by the time Mark and Dave arrived. Soon, the cabin was downright balmy, and we settled in for an afternoon and evening of unpacking, eating, and making disgusting manly noises. Ben and Ethen tried making an igloo next to the cabin, but the snow was too light and ended up caving in on Ethen while he was attempting to dig out a living quarters.

The next day we were greeted by light snow. The woodstove had gone out during the night, so the first order of the day was to get it going again. It seemed that eating was paramount to our camping experience, so a hearty omelet and sausage breakfast was lazily consumed by all.

Fully recovered from the previous day's ski in, I was eager to get out and test these things called snowshoes. At fist nobody else was going to join me, but then Dave agreed to accompany me on the venture. Since I don't have my own snowshoes, I was borrowing Ben's. These were no "tennis racquet" snow shoes, mind you - these were the newfangled, streamlined snow killers that are popular today.

Bundled up and ready to go, we headed down a trail. So far, so good. Then Dave had the wise idea that we should do some bushwhacking through the woods. He remembered a "small hill" that he had seen from the top of a mountain the year before, and he was determined that we would find it and conquer it.

I don't know where I came up with the notion, but I had always assumed that the benefit of snowshoes was that they kept you on top of the snow, thereby making the trek through deep snow a breeze. Talk about an instant reality check. Imagine my surprise upon leaving the trail and plowing into three feet of powder, and discovering that the snowshoes sunk down about a foot and a half. This just couldn't be - it was no easier than trudging through the snow without snowshoes.

But, indeed, it was true. Granted, it was a bit better than not having snowshoes - after all, sinking down a foot and a half is still preferable to sinking down three feet. But, make no mistake, snowshoeing is hard work. Very hard work. Within five minutes, I was stripping off layers of clothing. Within twenty minutes, I questioned the wisdom of searching for this "small hill." An hour into the "hike," I was silently cursing Dave and questioning how anyone could possibly consider this fun.

Eventually, the elusive hill came into view. This, of course, was a mixed blessing. On one hand, we had at last found our destination, so we at least knew the limits of the hike. On the other hand, it was still a fair distance away, and the closer we got, the less "small" it appeared.

Did I mention trudging through three feet of snow while dodging tree branches and saplings is a lot of work? I cannot emphasize this point enough.

When we at last came to the base of the hill, I threw myself on the ground (a nice cushion of snow to break my fall, of course) and complained loudly about continuing. Dave was unmoved by my display. So we continued. And, surprisingly, hiking up the hill was a bit easier than trudging through the woods. This was because the hill, being sloped, often had less snow in places than did the woods.

Our eyes firmly fixed on the summit, we switchbacked up the mountain, taking turns leading to break trail. At long last, we approached the summit, only to discover what we were looking at was a false summit - the actual summit was at least twice as far (for all we knew, this could have been another false summit, though). Mercifully (at last) Dave agreed that we had gone far enough. We paused only long enough to take pictures - sweaty bodies and cold, brisk winds don't mix well - and then we headed back down. The fact that we were going downhill and that we were using the trail we already broke made the return trip considerably easier. That's "easier," but not "easy." When, at long last, the cabin came back into view, I was more than ready to call it a day, and determined to never strap a pair of snowshoes on again. And, unfortunately, there would be no hot shower, or cold shower for that matter. At the moment, the appeal of "rouging it" was questionable at best.

The next morning we were greeted by a temperature of 15 below zero. Fortunately that was outside the cabin rather than inside. I had managed to recover from the previous day's misadventure and was actually willing to join the others in a hike up North Travellers mountain. Since Ben would be wearing his snowshoes today, I was left with Dave's old snowshoes - a pair of "tennis racquet" relics which are nice to look at but a pain to deal with. This became apparent early on when one of the shoes came off three times within the first half mile or so of hiking.

The Travelers hike was, in my estimation, infinitely easier than the previous day's slog. It followed a known trail, which seemed to help even though it was apparent that nobody else had done it for some time. And it was pretty much all up hill, which meant the snow cover was less than in the woods. It also helped that the views from most of the hike were spectacular. We, of course, so no other humans during the hike and when we got to the summit it felt like we had the whole world to ourselves.

The hike was followed, of course, by yet more eating. The next day, it was time to pack up and head on out. This time, there would be no snowmobiler to take our sleds. And while the 11 miles of slogging certainly felt long, it was still preferable to the torture I endured on my first snowshoe outing.

On the way out, we met up with a ranger who told us that we were getting out just in time since they were expecting a foot of fresh snow that evening. And, indeed, our timing proved impeccable. We started heading into snow on the drive home, and during the night it would turn into a full-fledged blizzard, leaving us with a foot of snow on the coast, and 18 inches up in Baxter. For the foreseeable future, I really don't want to find out what it's like to ski 11 miles through 18 inches of fresh snow while dragging a sled full of gear.

Slogging Through Baxter