There are times to just sit and write a small story is difficult. It is not because of my old memory getting a bit foggy, but the choices I wish to make. I wanted to write about one of the most beautiful scenes I had the honor of viewing while living in Maine. I thought of the time in Strong in the 50’s. The snowbanks were so high we were instructed not to walk on the snowbanks. They were almost as tall as the power lines coming to a few selected houses.  Even as a young tike, I could touch the wires if I tried. But I just stood there staring down at that big bulldozer with the V plow stuck and not moving at all. The snow had collapsed back onto the blade and prevented any movement.   I thought I could write about the times in Livermore where we had to walk a mile just to catch the bus. I was in the fifth grade and enjoyed and respected the teacher very much.  We had a snowstorm during the night, but school was still to be in session for the day.  I was quite anxious to go to school. I took the lead and made a path through that mile of snow for my sisters. I was delighted to go to school and proud to make a path for my sisters. There was no such thing as snow suits for us, just some hand-me-down wool pants. I could take them off when I got to the bus stop.

None of these scenes fit my favorite memory of being in Maine during the winter. The memory I cherish most of all was in the 60’s. I was working with my Dad on the east side of Elephant Mountain.  He was the crane operator, and I was driving the Hough skidder. Boy did I like that skidder. When I stepped on the throttle pedal it blatted so loud, it echoed down through the valley. My job was to travel up the skid road and haul out tree stems left by the cutting crew. Earlier that winter, they cut and hauled their cuttings out to a skid road and then moved on.  I was to haul the stems to a landing for the yard people to cut into logs and pulp. When I came down with a load, I could go so fast the skidder and logs would just slide sideways. Dad told me more than once, that was a dangerous thing to be doing. That never slowed me down though. I was young and foolish then.  (not young anymore)

When we left camp one morning, there was just a light dusting of snow. We were quite used to that. The further we went up the mountain, the snow was even deeper.  And as we got to the yard, the plow truck had to make a road for us. This didn’t matter much to me because all I had to do was get on the skidder and go. This was indeed my type of snow machine. Once the machine had warmed up, up the mountain we went. The machine was just a hollering and blatting and we were quite happy, that skidder and I.  When I got close to the cuttings, I had to stop and just absorb what lay before me. Everything had turned to ice. The trees were so laden with ice, they bent over and almost touched the top of the skidder. They would snap and crinkle as though we were breaking glass. Stretched out in front of me was a fairly long stretch of road and the trees were all arched like a cathedral. They were a shinning, diamond studded, glass archway. I had to stop and gaze at such an awesome picture. On the far end of the road, I could see the deepest dark blue sky one can imagine. The sun was just beginning to light up all the ice laden trees.  They began to look as though the road had thousands of candles hanging from the trees. This was indeed a picture of snow and ice that one should just cherish. But you would never carry a camera while operating a skidder on the East side of Elephant Mountain. So, I did all I could to save this beautiful picture amongst some of my favorite memories. This was a picture just for me. Words can not do the beauty justice, that I saw that day.  I knew once I drove down that road, it would never be the same. I considered it quite an honor that this picture was painted just for me.

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