Little Lyford
This was our fourth trip to Little Lyford. Each of our stays here has had its own history and character. After a seven mile ski this sign directs you down the steep and turning driveway to the camp. We stopped and gazed at our first of Little Lyford Pond Camps. Smoke drifted upwardfrom the chimney of our cabin into the clear air and the whole scene was of pleasant isolation and deep winter.
The salient feature of our fist trip here was the cold. On the second morning there was a distinct feeling to the air as we walked to the lodge for breakfast. I sat drinking coffee when a woman, dressed for a stroll in the arctic, charged through the doorway carrying a case of beer. She looked to be in shock from the cold. Over breakfast Becky and I revealed our intention to ski south to Gorman Chairback Camp, a 14 mile round trip. Chuck, the camp manager said to us- "You know it's 29 degrees below zero this morning". We did get a bit cold when we stopped to eat our frozen lunches, but it was a great and alive feeling to be warm and energized while skiing through the great north woods in that cold.
Our dwelling for the week was the last in a row of cabins set on a low ridge. The first few nights were moonless. The blackness was intense, deepened by the presence of miles of the great dark forest which enveloped us from all directions. At night when we turned off the gas lights there was only black space and the wind and cold outside.
This Trip To Little Lyford began under a cloud of concern over the snow conditions we expected to encounter. A few days before we arrived there was rain, even in northern Maine. We knew that with cold air the snow would freeze into a slick hard crust. At sunrise we put crampons on our boots and walked over to the pond. It was a still quiet morning, but that quietness was broken by the crunch of crampon points and the eerie booming of ice beneath our feet. When I imagined returning to this north woods in January I formed a picture of deep snow clinging in soft heaps to the spruces and filling the forest with muffled silence. What was here now was the harshness of winter's wreckage. Dark spruce trees sticking up against a pale sky. The ice was beautiful though as we traced a big circle around the pond's edges. We did not think to bring our skates. We actually do not have skates anymore. It has been many years since I laced up my skates with frozen fingers and slipped away from the plodding footfalls for the slicing glide of the skates. We could have made many great circles of the pond as the sun rose higher and touched us with a bit of warmth. The cracks in the ice could catch a skate blade though. I wonder if skating is something I will ever do again in this life.