Hut to Hut, Winter in Maine, Cross-Country Skiing, Ski Lodge

A winter gem in the heart of Maine and a cold journey brimming with perseverance, perspective, acceptance, and simple pleasures. The activities after skiing were napping, staring at the woodstove, journaling and reading. It took me some time to stop looking at my phone every few minutes – cell service was a rare luxury on this adventure.

Maine, Winter, skiing, cross-country, lodges — January 2022, Gorman Chairback Lodge, Greenville, Maine

Adventure always calls. And this time, it called in the form of an article by D. Goodman in the New York Times about a 4-day hut to hut, cross-country ski trek through Main’s 100-mile wilderness. While his trek was with friends in the rustic-decorated cabins, mine was solo, in the age of Covid, and with what we’ll call “economy lodging” – the dreaded bunkhouse: cheap, chatty, stinky, wet, winter clothes, and no space. Or so I thought.

From southern NH it would be a quick 5-hour ride into the heart of Maine’s wilderness, where I would stay 2 nights at the first lodge (Medawisla) to get my bearings. From there, I would cross-country ski the 8.5 miles to West Branch Pond Camp, a centuries old hunting lodge, then ski to AMC’s (Appalachian Mountain Club’s) Little Lyford Lodge (I had planned to ski, but I asked for a snowmobile ride instead!) After Little Lyford, I would ski 6.5 miles to AMC Gorman Chairback Lodge, and on the 5th and final day, would ski around 7.2 miles to the parking lot where my car would be waiting.

I did attempt – however unsuccessfully – to recruit close friends and family to take on this winter trek. I needed to book the dates several months prior as the sites were filling up quickly - so I forged ahead solo. The solitude has always been a friend, challenge accepted. With no kids or pets to fuss, a quick review of the itinerary with my husband, and I was driving to central Maine in the middle of winter.

The week chosen, happened to be the coldest of the year – showing up to breakfast on the second morning with the staff touting the -28 degree temperature. I went over and confirmed that that’s what the thermometer said. It was negative friggen 28. Layering my clothes appropriately was going to be a challenge and keeping my sweat in check would be an even bigger task.

The days skiing were quiet, focused, and reflective. I rarely saw another human – and the gentleman I did see on the second day passing in the opposite direction told me his name and where he lived in case he died on the trail and didn’t make it back to the cabin (his words). Who says that?! But I jotted his name down in case. Turns out 5 minutes later he turned around and then passed me on the trail, bugger! My skis are shorter and wider for less groomed trails, I am a classic skier, preferable to the backcountry, and these trails were home to mostly skate skiers looking for the perfect groomer. I shuffled along and enjoyed the cold suffering. Somehow, the body cold and hot at the same time, clothes soaking in sweat and then drying out; starting with layers, removing them quickly, and putting them back on slowly overtime.

Some days were up to 8.5 miles between lodges, so by the time I arrived in the afternoon, I only had limited time to see the area, and I was more likely to find myself in front of the wood stove with my one luxury item – a large and thick fleece blanket. Due to Covid restrictions, hikers and skiiers were required to use the Gear Transport, where overnight bags and items are snowmobiled between the huts and waiting upon arrival at the next lodge. There was no cell service the entire trek (took me a hot minute to get used to not checking my phone every 5 minutes), except one warm, sunny, stretch on a snowmobile path where I took out my phone to check the time and noticed all my emails, texts, and a mass variety of notifications had come through. I did call my parents to let them know I was living my best life, looking at the shining snow, on a bluebird day, with not a cloud in the sky or a person for miles. It was quite raw and stunning, dead grasses and dried vegetation blowing in a slight breeze, temperatures warmed to the low teens, dry clothes, and stellar ski conditions. What more does one ask?

Also due to Covid at the AMC lodges we were required to eat at the bunkhouse. Alone. To-go breakfast, bag lunches, and take-out dinners were served in the main lodge and then eaten in the solitude of our sleeping area. With being the only one in the bunkhouses meant to fit 10-15 people, I pulled the futon right up close to the wood stove and slept on it each night. Within the first hour of arriving to Medawisla I managed to set off the smoke alarm. Cookies were provided as an afternoon snack – of course I took several back to the bunkhouse and thought I’d heat one quickly on the top of the woodstove. The chocolate bits began burning immediately causing the smallest smoke which set off the sensitive alarm that the crew had warned me of during check-in. I was horrified and waiting at any moment for someone to run up and ask what I was doing as I flailed the door open and closed trying to make a breeze – no one showed up and eventually the smoke alarm stopped. I was in my own winter wonderland – and hopefully not going to burn the place down with my toasted chocolate chip cookie.

The West Branch Pond cabin was my favorite – it was a studio size room built by the family in 1913 – the front entrance – a shoveled, barely foot-wide path, with a pile of kindling and logs stacked near the door. Upon entering, there were 2 twin beds flanked by small partitions, the other side of the room, a woodstove, a squeaky rocking chair and a comfy, puffy armchair, a small table, an industrial size water cooler, a back door that led to a porch that overlooked West Branch Pond, and porter potty across the way (or bathroom near the main house). You can bet in the middle of the night I pee’d in a container inside and tossed it out the back porch – carrying the toilet paper in my bag.

It was both the most romantic cabin and yet straight from a horror movie once the sun set. Worst case scenarios played out in my mind as I journaled at night trying not to look out the windows.

Gorman Chairback was my next favorite lodge – only accessible by hiking or skiing in several miles. It had cabins on the shores of Second Narrows Lake which were quaint and homey, filled with old books, wood stoves, area décor, and would be stunning in the summer. The bunkhouse however, at both Gorman Chair Back and Little Lyford had little to no sign of life. No pictures on the walls, no bookshelves, not much for comfort. The price to pay overnight was about triple for a 2–3-person cabin, so instead I was booked alone, and heating a bunkhouse meant for 10+. It was unfortunate not to enjoy the usual chatter with random strangers, but I was also relishing in my solo adventure.

The nuances of the cabins were intriguing – the AMC cabins – newly renovated and rebuilt, fresh, green logs, bright – and West Branch Pond Camp, historical and memorable, with it’s character and grit – the owners having grown up and homeschooled on the land, vs the 20 something, seasonal help of the AMC – down to the maintenance of the trails. AMC trails were a bit over cleared and wide, the groomers not fully understanding all snow conditions and the best time to groom, while Eric Sterling provided a masterclass on grooming trails to meet individual customer needs and based on weather conditions.

Eric was a flood of knowledge on the snowmobile ride between lodges – describing the old telephone lines that used to go between the cabins – and when he noticed the dead grouse on the side of the trail, he pleasantly and proudly pointed out the “poop shoot” from the bird of prey that took the life of this grouse. The grouse looked like it had exploded, leaving only a plume of feathers and blood specks in the snow. Eric noted the Martin tracks (a Lynx-like animal that I had never heard of), handed me a few feathers as a keepsake, and we carried on.

The only other memorable animal were grouses – on the final day of the journey, making my way to the car some 7 miles away, which to my poor planning was not planned. Somehow, I had missed the step where my car was 7 miles from the last lodge. Just a small detail there. Anyway, as I was huffing and puffing up a small incline, the trail narrow and ungroomed, the sun out blazing with temps still in the single digits, mind focused on breathing and finishing – the trees glistening, we had had some fresh snow and the conditions were great. Everything was layered and covered, rocks looking like white forms, and lumps. One glide after the next – doing my thing and just paying attention to me, when a grouse, followed by 2 more, popped straight up and out of the snow – mimicking what was a small and covered rock – scaring the absolute bejesus out of me as they plodded off. Luckily, the largest signs of wildlife, were the small prints of bunnies and mice, small woodland creatures.

The worst mistake of the trip was leaving my keys in the gas tank in the car lot –

and it was only in the last mile that I realized the gas tank door was likely frozen shut from the single degree temps (it was 6 degrees that day). And when I got back to the car, that’s exactly what I found – and it was only a few short minutes before a burst of panic set in, still with no cell service, with my fingers numbing, and sweat starting to cool, that I ripped off the gas door and got my damn keys. Luckily the door cover snapped back on, so crisis averted, but lesson noted (also noted that the last mile is a complete balls-out, sweat-fest, all-hill climb – the hardest and tallest of the entire trek – no blissful, effortless descent right into the parking lot as I had been imagining the previous days).

In total over the five-day trek, I skied some 30~ miles – no blisters, no frostbite, no mountain lions, and no psychopaths as everyone imagined. Bring on the next hut trek. Thank you David Goodman for the inspiration and to the AMC and West Branch Pond Camps for making it possible.