Thursday, February 20, 2014

Pettengill Farm, Freeport

Jumped out of bed at 6:30, the fresh snow and light were so beautiful. Every branch, every twig was topped with an inch of fluffy white snow. The sunrise was pink and gold and the sky pirouetted from pale to deep blue.

"Pirouetted," is that too precious? Is "shifted" better?

Snowshoed up Mt David, got to the top, someone was there, how can I revel in nature in the presence of a stranger? Left the summit to the stranger, turned around and slid skiied snowshoed down.

Friends postponed planned lunch: I was on my own. Headed south. After several days of storms and solitude I felt ready to be among humans. Was partially successful with that. Better was the snowshoe adventure to Pettengill Farm. The last inhabitant of the home was a single woman. Google it for interesting historical details.

I snowshoed through old woods for 15 or 20 minutes. Maples, birch, ledges, snowy inlet. Found the house and peeked inside. All muted and ghosty inside: peeling walls, some bits of furniture, and a double-sided fireplace. House on a point, bay or river, frozen over. Lots of tall pines, an enormous lilac, apple trees.

It was a solitary snowy adventure. Revelled in nature. I hustled along the trail, missing my dog. Clouds developed, turning the sky nearly as white as the land. It was warm, so the morning fluff changed to heavy wet snowman snow. The trail was like a highway, snowshoes on the left and skiis on the right. When I left the trail I sunk to my knees, even with the snowshoes. It's deep.

Maine: a place of beautiful shifting light and deep snow.

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