The cabin stands in the woods at the base of the little thumb of New Hampshire sticking up beyond the 45th parallel that marks the northern border of Vermont. Maine lies only a mile and a quarter to the east of the cabin, Vermont about 25 miles west, and the Canadian border about 30 miles north. Because of ambiguities in the Treaty of Paris of 1783 with reference to the location of the US-Canadian border, nobody knew for decades just where the border was. Frustrated by the claims and counterclaims of the two governments – both tried to levy taxes and draft soldiers – the locals took things into their own hands in 1832 and declared the territory to be the independent Indian Stream Republic. It lasted about three years, and there was even a very small war fought over it. Finally Canada ceded the area, and in 1842 Daniel Webster (Dartmouth, Class of ‘01) negotiated the present border with his British counterpart, Lord Ashburton.

Never really conducive to farming, this is logging country. Once skinned nearly clean and run downstream by doughty loggers and river drivers, it’s now mainly working forest and prime recreation country for hunters, fishermen, and snowmobilers. And it’s clear proof, if ever any is needed, of the difference only a few degrees of latitude can make in climate. When college students downstate are playing Frisbee on the dead-grass quadrangles of spring, these woods are still slumbering under lingering snow cover. This has been a great winter for snow. The path to the privy, carved out with a grain scoop, is almost hip-deep on either side.

I had a cough that had gotten worse during the night, and was worst when I lay down. Dragging my sleeping bag into the main room, I tried without success to doze off. I didn’t much like the thought of sitting upright till breakfast time, and besides, my hacking was probably keeping other people awake – people too polite to holler at me to knock it off. So I decided to leave. Packing as quietly as possible, I pulled on my coat, tuque, and mittens and stepped out into the cold.

I couldn’t see the thermometer, but it was well below zero, and very still. The moon was just down into the tops of the spruces; there was plenty of light to walk to my truck. Still haunted by memories of the weak six-volt batteries of my youth, I switched off everything electrical and turned the ignition key. The little four-cylinder started so easily that I actually apologized out loud for even thinking that it wouldn’t. I backed out as quietly as I could, turned south, and started down the two-mile frozen dirt road to the highway, the two best headlights I’ve ever seen flooding the white tunnel between the banks piled high on both sides. There was no rush. Even at moderate speed, I’d be home by six, and I didn’t want to wake Mother too early. The roads were dry and cold; the moon still cast some light across the clearings; the bits of open water in the river beside the road were smoking. This was going to be a very pleasurable experience.

When I was younger, I loved driving at night. Impatient, and burning the candle at both ends, I hated to waste daylight in travel. So I often set off in the dark, after a stop at a grocery store for a quart of milk and a pound or two of really cheap cream-filled cookies, usually lemon- or maple-flavored. The maple ones were shaped like maple leaves. They usually kept me going all night, checking far ahead for deer’s eyes and the pavement for porcupines. This run was going to be cookieless; not many stores are open in northern New Hampshire early on Sunday mornings.

It also occurred to me, after 20 miles without another vehicle on the road, that moderation would be a good policy. Though the roadside snowbanks were comforting, a skid off the pavement might entail a long wait for help. The cell phone was useless. Best to keep the little truck safely between the banks. Through my head kept running the lines from Stan Rogers’ song “Canol Road,” about a fugitive who takes off up the abandoned Canol Road in his four-wheel-drive pickup truck on a cold Yukon night and runs out of gas: “They found him thirty-eight miles up the Canol Road, in the Salmon Range at forty-eight below.”

You see things at night that you don’t during the day. I didn’t expect deer or moose; the moose are up high, browsing, and the deer were no doubt bedded down because of the cold. One tiny animal, probably a weasel, flickered briefly on top of a snowbank and disappeared. Two dark trucks parked beside the road at Pontook Reservoir said that somebody was fishing. Sure enough, way out on the ice, there gleamed an orange light, like an oil lamp. Diehards.

At the right-angle turn away from the Androscoggin River, I finally met another vehicle. A blonde woman at a stop sign in a late-model sedan, with her door half-open. Was she saying she wanted to ask a question? She was holding a map, which explained the open door. I stopped. “You know where you are?” Yes, she nodded. “Good luck!” I left; no need to worry her.

Over the height of land and into the Connecticut watershed. Groveton, Lancaster, and St. Johnsbury all dark – North Country buttoned up tight. Finally in Danbury, just before crossing into a third watershed, there was a truck stop with gas, newspapers, and a dozen different Green Mountain coffee flavors. I picked Vermont Country Blend – what else? – and called Mother so she’d know who was driving into the yard. Dawn was breaking. All downhill from here.