A Memory: Maine Winters

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Dave’s love for Maine extended into every season – I don’t think I ever even heard him complain of “mud season” (most of the wet spring and fall that ends up making that whole area a muddy mess). While summers were filled with fishing, boating and kayaking, winters were reserved for snowmobiling.

Our trips always started with a debate about who would ride which snowmobile. My dad ALWAYS picked the Yamaha, which was the fastest, but didn’t have a reverse. When we were younger, Dave and I usually had to share an Arctic Cat two-seater. So, if I was feeling gracious, I’d let him steer first, clinging to the back. Sometimes, I started us up. As the passenger you were pretty much at the mercy of the driver and it could get pretty turbulent back there. Dave would torture me by going too fast and hitting the snowbanks for a little air, till I maniacally slapped him on the back when I was about to fall off. I would torture Dave by taking the curves on the trails too tight, occasionally landing us in a ditch. Somehow, that was my specialty. Once we got older, a third machine was added. From then on Dave landed in a ditch with me much less often and usually just had to help me dig mine out when I got a little too wild.

Our house is right on Mooselookmeguntic lake. Sometime in November or December it begins to freeze over and a few weeks later it’s safe for passage. Earlier in the season, we would take the snow-machines straight to the trails by trailer, but once the lake was safe, we would jump on the snowmobiles in front of the house, take a little trip through the yard, carefully navigate the rocky lakefront and then we’d be free to race over the perfectly flat frozen lake for miles until we’d reach the town, buy a few snacks and finally get on the trails from there. We would ride for hours, stop somewhere with a nice vista, hang out a little, munching on chips and going back and forth about how good or bad the trails were that day or whether some maniacs were riding on the wrong side of the path. Of course, there was always a mandatory discussion about what top speed everyone reached:

— I hit 87 mph!
— Oh yea?! I hit 91!

Sometimes the numbers got a bit outrageous… as in, I’m pretty sure Dave exaggerated!

After our little break, we’d settle on a place to head to for a real meal, eating calorie-laden delicious comfort food, our dad sipping a cold beer. Then we’d gas up the snowmobiles and head right back on the trails. Sometimes we’d be on the trails long enough that we’d have to ride back in complete darkness, which was always a bit disconcerting, but also utterly beautiful with a clear night sky overhead. Sometimes, we’d be hit by an unexpected snowstorm, limiting our visibility to almost nothing and making us slow down to a few mph until the weather cleared again. No matter what, it was always a good story later!

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