Updated on March 17, 2003

North of Here

There could be little argument that it has been a long, cold winter. And although we have had not had all that much snow this winter, especially compared to states just south of us, what we have had has stuck around. The combination of sub-freezing temperatures and consistent snow cover has afforded us Mainers the opportunity to engage in all manner of winter "play" without concern that conditions would inhibit our activities (well, except for the extreme sub-zero temperatures we've had to endure on several occasions). Indeed, I've found that our winter activity "schedule" has rivaled our summer one in that it is getting difficult to find the time to fit in all the things we want to do. Northern and western Maine, being largely either rural or forested, are ideally suited to outdoor winter pursuit and thus we have found ourselves headed in those directions repeatedly this winter.

One of the principal activities we've partaken in this winter is alpine skiing. For the first time in many, many years, I have a "significant other" that is interested in the sport. Up until this winter, Denise hadn't tried skiing since high school, but once she strapped the boards back on there has been no looking back. As a result, instead of being a "ski widow," she is an active force in getting us out on the hills. Typically, we take the 2+ hour trip to Sugarloaf to indulge our addiction. Sugarloaf offers "big mountain" skiing with enough of a diversity of trails to keep us both satisfied. By sharing the driving responsibilities with neighbors who have season tickets, and targeting our trips for Wednesdays, when lift tickets are only $29 for Maine residents, we've managed to get a good deal of skiing in this season without going broke.

We've also skied Squaw Mountain, near Moosehead lake, where you can still find 1970s style trails - narrow and winding - and 1970s style lift ticket prices ($15 to $25).

Our "mini vacation" for the winter was a trip way up North, to Mount St. Anne, in Quebec. The weather and skiing were splendid. Any place that has a couple of resident Saint Bernards camped out at the top of the mountain is all right with me. The trip back, however, was a bit tense. About 30 miles north of the US border, we encountered near-whiteout conditions. By the time we reached the border, there was a good three inches of unplowed snow on the roadway and no let-up in sight. Having only seen French speaking news programs the previous two days, we weren't really aware of the weather report. When I asked the border patrol agent what the weather forecast was, he smiled, shook his head, and said, "looks to me like snow."

The ferocity of the snow let up a bit the further south we headed, but it remained enough of a factor throughout the trip to make for a classic "white knuckle" drive. When we finally made it home, mentally exhausted, it was difficult to keep the memory of the horrible drive from erasing the fond memories of the ski trip.

A winter "first" for us this year was a trip into the interior of the state to check out the Maine sled dog championships. As luck would have it, the event coincided with one of the many "Arctic blasts" we experienced this winter. Waking up to a temperature of 2 degrees, Denise wondered whether it was wise to venture out to an event in which we'd have to stand around in the cold. With my prompting, insanity won out over reason and us and some neighbors headed up to Dover-Foxcroft.

Heading inland, away from the coast, the temperatures naturally dropped. By the time we arrived at the event, it was a balmy -5 degrees. For the dogs, of course, this was ideal. For us spectators, it was a bit less than ideal. With the temperature and the wind, it was difficult to stand around outside for more than about 15 minutes. The event was centered around the clubhouse for a local snowmobile club, so fortunately we could duck into the heated environs of the clubhouse whenever our toes or fingers threatened to snap off of our bodies. That, coupled with the fact that they were selling some of the best beef stew I've ever had, made the morning tolerable.

Sled dog racing, I discovered, is not something you do casually. If you are into it, you are into it. Walking around the parking lot filled with specially made dog transport vehicles, sleds, and row after row of high-strung, barking, hungry dogs, it was apparent that for all of those involved this was much more than a mere hobby. We were hoping that they would be offering rides so that we could experience the "thrill" without having to commit the time and effort, but on this day, the mushers were all business. Unfortunately, the way things were set up, spectators could only see the teams taking off, and the teams returning. This, in itself, was rather impressive, but at 5 below and windy, "impressive" can only hold you for so long. After watching several "junior" races (kids using teams of two and three dogs), we decided that the championships would have to be determined without us.

We also managed to make our way down to Camden this February to take a few runs down the toboggan slide. In my former life, I had taken part in a couple of competitions down the ice-lined toboggan chute, but many years have passed since I did that, and Denise was eager to give it a try, so we added that to our x-country expedition down at the Camden Snow Bowl. We met up with a neighbor and his friend there, so we had a full toboggan as we sped down the chute. It was exactly as I had remembered it - starting out with an adrenaline rush as you headed down the steepest part of the chute, then turning into an "oh no, here it comes" experience as you hit the bumps in the ice near the end that cause the toboggan to temporarily rise, followed by the slamming of the toboggan, and your body, back onto the chute. We took three runs down the chute and then decided that we should probably stop risking a bruised tailbone for a few seconds of fun..

Early March brought forth a long-planned "cabin fever reliever" weekend at a friend's family camp on Moosehead Lake. Originally, we had expected as many as 10 people would be making the trek to the great white north, but the event was planned so far in advance that some of the people who had planned to attend had to back out due to the birth of children. So, we ended up with five of us instead. But we had enough food for about 25 of us.

Our accommodations were far from primitive. As one of our group pointed out, this "second home" was nicer than most of our "first" homes. A bit disconcerting, however, were the abundance of animal "trophies" mounted throughout the house. Elk, moose, grizzly bear, dahl sheep, longhorn sheep, deer, antelope - you name it, it was stuffed and mounted in this place. Alas, nothing we could do was going to bring these animals back to life, so we learned to live with them.

Having arrived late Friday morning, our first inclination was to take advantage of the bright sunshine and head out on our x-country skis. The cold winter meant that this rather massive lake (32 miles from end-to-end) was frozen quite solid, so our options for x-country travel were relatively unlimited. The only thing we really had to watch out for were snowmobiles, which were ever-present here in snowmobile country.

We decided to ski out across the lake to Mount Kineo, a massive granite monolith that rises from the lake and is one of the most recognizable landmarks in the area. The ski across turned out to be about a mile. We then skied overland, around the front of Kineo, and back out onto the lake on the other side. Throughout our journey we skied past numerous ice fishing traps and ice fishermen and fisherwomen. So many, in fact, that I began to wonder how a fish even stood a chance. I then realized, however, that although we saw hundreds of traps, we never saw anyone catching any fish. Clearly, the fish knew something was up.

As we skied around the other side of Kineo, a fox came running around the bend, caught sight of us, and then quickly changed direction and scooted out of sight. After what we had experienced inside the cabin, it was refreshing to see a live animal, even if it was ever so briefly.

Some of the lake surface on this side of the mountain was well windblown, allowing us to get a great view of the ice and the intricate patterns that were created by the cracks and fissures in the ice. It appeared that the ice was at least three feet thick, which left me seriously doubting whether anyone would be engaging in open water fishing on this lake at the start of the season on April 1.

Back at the cabin, we finally met up with some of the other group - two guys who had come up the night before, rented snowmobiles, and had spent the day snowmobiling out and about. They had travelled about 110 miles already that day and asked if we wanted to take the sleds for a spin. I talked Denise into it, but she insisted that she would only go as a passenger, not a driver. As we approached 65 mph while zipping across the lake, I'm sure she was questioning the decision. After about a half hour of touring, we made it back to the cabin, having successfully avoided becoming a casualty in the deadliest snowmobile season the state has ever seen.

The next day, Denise took off for home. Since there were no more women around the house, we could experience the true meaning of "vacation," which is making messes without having to clean up after ourselves. This day was also bright and sunny, and maybe even approaching "warm" (i.e. not unbearably cold). Three of us walked across the lake to Kineo, sled in tow, to take a try at the sled riding hill at the base of the mountain. The hill, which was also a popular place for snowmobiles to climb, had developed row after row of snow "ridges," which promised a memorable sled ride. Steve and I took the first ride. Half way down, while heading towards a stand of trees, Steve stuck his legs out in an attempt to stop or minimize the impending carnage. We did manage to avoid hitting the trees, but beyond that the only thing that Steve's "leg breaks" did was cause large volumes of snow to fly up in my face as we continued down the hill unabated.

Next, Jesse and I took a run. This time, I sat in back and there were no attempts at breaking. About half way down, we hit the mother of all snow ridges and went airborne. Jesse was floating about two feet above the sled when his hat popped off and somehow I managed to grab it out of the air. The landing was abrupt, as expected, but there was plenty of snow to cushion the impact. We managed to remain in the sled for the duration of the ride, but all agreed that we had had enough sledding for a while.

I followed the sledding adventure with a winter hike up Mount Kineo. The views from the top were spectacular and I'd share them with you except that I totally screwed up using Jesse's digital camera and ended up not taking any of the pictures I thought I was taking. You'll just have to go look for yourself.