On the trip up, there was a
"warm spell." and snows already fallen were melting. Once we arrived up north (someplace
south of Eagle Lake), the temperatures began to get colder. During the rest of our stay there
"brisk" temperatures prevailed. I don't think it ever got above minus 10 ° ~C
or F!. The skies were overcast during the day.
But there were some clear nights, and the
Aurora Borealis provided a fantastic night sky light show.
Ray introduced me to his old friend Larry, with whom I was to stay. I definitly had to curb
acting upon my lumberjack logging camp fantasties. A big strapping mountain of
a man who was as thoughtful and polite a person as I coulda met.
On the first day out to look for suitable trees, Larry pointed me into the woods, indicating
that was where I was to start searching. He told me where he expected to meet me out on another
road and asked casually if I was sure I wouldn't get lost.
He seemed certain I could read the terrain. I proudly told him I'd looked at the topo map, and that I always
carried my compass.
He took on a reflective look for but a second, and noted aloud, but not bragging, "Humm.
I never use those things." And then he walked away in the other direction, not the least bit
worried I'd become a statistic. I remained, nevertheless, humbled, but still comforted by my
compass's heft in the pocket anyhow. After all, he lived there! He should know his way
around. I didn't || We spent the next couple of days hunting down well-rounded Balsam Firs for
cutting. Not a good decision that. We liked the balsams ourselves, but back in Connecticut
people wanted Scotch Pines.
On the trip back south, we chose to follow a miles-long dirt "highway" through those same
North Woods. No turning back after getting on that road, 'cuz there were no connecting roads most of
the way || We drove past road to old logging camps and the entry points to skidder path dead ends.
But there were no off ramps to town.
Eventually we came to a well flooded stream, quite a bit too deep to traverse if it were running.
But it was frozen solid. And as clear and as smooth and new window pane glass. And glistening. And
it was already late in the day. So we got out. Looked at the iced-over, well flooded stream.
We walked across it. No ice cracking noises. No settling of frozen plates. We guessed
it had to be at least a foot (~1/3 meter) thick. We ate a couple of chicken sandwiches
packed for the trip. Had some Jack Daniels and smoked a joint.
We reasoned it out. Sure, the waters had been rushing rapidly when we'd drive up north only a few
days before. We'd also had a couple of days of well below zero weather. So what's the risk
factor here? Hell we didn't even need a compass to figure this one.
Then Ray shrugged, motioned we get back in the truck, turned over the engine, and pointed us straight across to where the road wqas visible, maybe some 40 feet away. "What the hey," he says,
you only live once!" He stepped on the accelerator and drove across that bridge of solid crystal clear ice,
and we quickly made it across, and not a single break in the ice. "Whoop Dee DOO!" What a rush!
The rest of the trip south wasn't nearly as eventful. We stopped and took some pictures at
Kokadjo (population -3-) which I later turned into a painting. Had a couple of spirited races
with a moose running alongside the truck. And when we drove into Bristol we were tired to be sure.
Ultimately, we did sell enough trees to break even on the costs of the journey. Which was
fine. The trip itself was my Christmas gift that year. And that was quite enough for me.
will brady's journal | the christmas tree adventure | north maine woods
