Snowshoeing in Dexter

Very little snow has fallen in Central Maine since December, but some of it has stuck around in spots thanks to the cold temperatures. On Sunday, we took a crunchy snowshoe walk in the woods with our friend John through his family's 85 acres east of Dexter. Lovely and quiet. We followed an ice-covered stream to a frozen cascade, opaque, frothy blue-green ice like blobs of tinted whipped cream. Deer had left scat here and there, but we did not see the animals themselves. Deer population is way down in Maine this year.

The chickadees were everywhere, especially at the feeder in front of the house. Four red squirrels feasted on the seeds fallen to the ground beneath the feeder, poking in and out of the burrows they had dug in the snowbank.

Met John's nephew and chatted awhile. Lovely winter morning.

Christmas week in Harmony: Part Three

Last day of a relaxing week in the little cabin in Maine. The threatened storm turned out to be powerful but brief with less than 10 inches of snow, but the wind blew all the snow off the pine trees, erasing the "winter wonderland" feel of the place.

No matter. Sunday was above freezing and cloudy with occasional slush balls falling. Our plan to snowshoe in the woods was thwarted when we discovered we had a serious ice dam on the roof. I knocked down 5-foot icicles and got hit in the face with a shard, giving me a little cut on the lip. Ralphie of A Christmas Story fame would have been impressed.

We spent several hours breaking up the ice along the edge of the roof with a hatchet and raking off two feet of snow. Actually, Spencer spent several hours doing that while I held the ladder, handed him tools and dodged hunks of ice and snow. We were both soaked and freezing by dusk, but we got it done.

Afterwards, we got into dry clothes, stoked the fire, and sipped hot apple cider while watching football on TV. The most blissful hour of the whole week.

Tomorrow I drive back to Boston over precarious road conditions, but if I can get the little Scion 0.3 miles to the main road in town, it will be smooth sailing.

Christmas week in Harmony: Part Two

On New Year’s Day, it snowed lightly all day long, covering the pine trees surrounding the cabin with white powder and softening the footprints that humans, dogs and deer left in the snow.

We walked into town for such necessities as newspapers, mayonnaise and lemon pies, and squandered four dollars on losing lottery tickets.

Since the advent of all-digital broadcast television last year, we receive only ABC and Fox. Fortunately, we could tune in the Capital One and Rose Bowls, so we got our dose of college football to make it feel like New Year’s.

Both too exhausted last night to add late-night logs to the fire, we woke at 5 a.m. this morning toasty under three comforters despite an indoor temperature of 45 degrees. With patient tending, Spencer got a nice blaze going in the stove, and by 8:00, it was 55, tolerable if you wear several layers, sip lots of black coffee, and wrap yourself in a lap robe.

The predicted big storm is due in today with high winds. I plan to trudge into town in snowshoes for a newspaper.

Christmas week in Harmony: Part One

We came up to the cabin two days after Christmas to play and relax in the silent woods of Harmony. Our little cabin was 34 degrees inside when I opened the door. My big plan to greet Spencer with a blazing fire in the stove was thwarted by my inability to coax anything thicker than a pencil to burn.

Without a fire, the refrigerator doesn’t run, the water in the toilet stays frozen and you can’t turn on the water.

Spencer arrived with the groceries and got the stove going, and soon the place was warm enough that we could deal with a host of other calamities: the toilet would flush but not fill; cans of seltzer left in the refrigerator door had frozen, exploded and expanded so that, once opened, the fridge wouldn’t close.

But by sunset, we had everything running smoothly, and the place was cheerful again. Good thing, because our friend John came for brunch and a walk through the snowy woods the next day.

That night, the temperature plummeted to single digits, and the wind howled through the trees. We left the kitchen faucet trickling overnight to keep the pipes from freezing.

On the third day, as I washed my hair, the rubber shower mat began floating around my feet. The drain was frozen. After bailing out the shower stall, we boiled big kettles of water and poured it slowly down the drain. It didn’t work. The water just pooled up and had to be bailed again. We still had another option: we could shovel a path to the crawl space door, shimmy inside and heat the drain pipe with a hair dryer, but we decided we’d rather just take bird baths in the sink until April.

Though bitter cold outside, in the cabin it was a balmy 60 degrees, quite comfortable if you wear long underwear, sweat pants, a long-sleeved T-shirt, a sweat shirt and a cardigan sweater.

Spencer worked on a model airplane from a simple kit to which he has added bits and pieces to create a work of astonishing detail.

I drew a piece of Celtic knotwork, the elaborate, interwoven ribbon art found in the Book of Kells and on Irish music album covers. It’s my latest artistic passion.

On Wednesday, we drove to Skowhegan to stock up on batteries, water, cider, canned spaghetti and cake, among other things, to prepare for a pending storm.

Today, New Year’s Eve, the temperature has moderated to the mid-20s, but we’re bracing ourselves for three days of snow that could accumulate to two feet. I could have left today, but I wanted to stay and play in the snow, and we’re having a lovely week hanging out and sipping hot cider.

November in Harmony, Maine

At our little cabin, the rusty leaves are all down covering the yard and the floor of the woods.

The pointed evergreens, deep green cones reaching for the sky, dominate the landscape against the gray net of naked branches around them.

Mornings everything is frosty: cars, leaves, milkweeds. The milkweeds and cattails have exploded, sending their genetic messengers out into the world.