Northern Maine is surprisingly large. If you look at a map of the United States, you can see that both Vermont and New Hampshire could just about fit inside Maine north of Portland. Distances people drive to get places up here are almost Texan in magnitude. The North Maine state vehicle is the semi- or double-trailer logging truck, and the favorite toy is the snowmobile. I stayed last night in a motel right on the shore of frozen Moosehead Lake, and cold as it was – about ten below and blowing hard out of the north – snowmobiles roared by at intervals throughout the night.

In the morning I breakfasted leisurely at a booth in Auntie M’s Restaurant, surrounded by a lot of very large guys on the same mission. I caught up on the latest in The Bangor Daily News and drove to the parking lot where I was supposed to meet the rest of the crew for the day. The sun high in the skhttp://www.livejasmin.com/livedeal.phpy said February to me, but the thermometer said not quite yet.

I was looking forward to renewing an acquaintance with Stephen Madera of Abbot, Maine, with whom I’d traveled three winters ago. Stephen runs a dogsledding business with the lovely name of Song in the Woods, and I remembered his dogs’ unrestrained affection for a total stranger whose sorry behind they were about to haul several miles through the bushes.

The day started auspiciously. Our four vehicles, coming from four widely separated origins, convened in the parking lot with one minute to spare. A few brief hellos (the dogs were still in their boxes in the back of Steve’s truck), and off we went, “just up the road a little bit. We turn right onto a logging road about twenty-seven miles up.” See what I mean about Maine commutes?

The fabled Hundred-Mile Wilderness of the Appalachian Trail lies just east of this area. Trail hikers headed north stock up in Monson, Maine, the last outpost before Baxter Park. They get mail and packages held for them there, get a last shower at a local hostel that welcomes hikers’ business, and set off north again, hoping to complete the trek in seven to ten days. It’s a fitting finish to the two thousand-mile trek here from Georgia.

The Appalachian Mountain Club, whose huts and hostels have pretty well saturated New Hampshire, has in recent years become a player in northern Maine. Its Maine Woods Initiative has raised millions for the acquisition of former lumber company land. Sensitive to the needs of locals, whose existence depends largely upon both forest products and and recreation, the Club has committed itself to managing the land for sustainable logging, as well as public access. It seems to make no bones about its feelings toward snowmobiles and ATVs, but has allowed limited access for “motorized recreation” on certain existing trails. I’m no forester, so I can’t authoritatively judge the impact these policies will have on the wilderness; but I’ve driven for so many years past lumber company clearcuts that resemble nothing else so much as First World War battlefields and suggest no other word so much as “rape,” that I’m cheering in advance for the putative benefits.

The AMC’s first major purchase up here was the so-called Katahdin Iron Works property, 37,000 acres that include a museum of the long-defunct iron works, as well as a stand of virgin white pines that the old lumber barons preserved for their private retreat. Last November the Club announced a further purchase, the 29,500-acre Roach Ponds tract. This acquisition secures an unbroken swath – 650,000 acres – of public conservation land from just north of Greenville all the way to Mount Katahdin.

A local sporting camp owner I interviewed earlier today (luckily, since I may not survive the afternoon) was delighted with the change in ownership. A fourth-generation camp operator, he now owns a thirty-acre inholding within the conservation lands. In the past, he said, he had to get used to change over which he had no control. Now he’s in much better shape, and the new business of camp-to-camp skiing and mountain biking seems to have real appeal. He also told me exactly when to reserve a cabin for the best brook trout fishing on his pond.

There are currently three – and by next year there’ll be four – old sporting camps renovated for modern visitors and a fairly easy day’s travel apart. It’s a lot like the AMC’s hut-to-hut system in the White Mountains, except that here your gear will be transported while you ski, snowshoe, hike, or bike, and will be waiting for you in your cabin when you arrive. Hard to beat that.

Meanwhile, I’m enjoying as much as possible (while my vital signs slowly fade) the enthusiastic company of Little Bug, Roy, Ripley, Jake, and all their companions. Their tails and ears go down a bit on the hard uphills, when Stephen grabs a line and helps pull; and everything flies high on the downhills, when Stephen rides the brake a bit to keep from running them over. We’ll shortly be down in the green timber and out of the wind near Roach Pond and Medawisla Camps. Shortly after that I’ll get a greeting from its genial hosts, John and Amy, and wrap my frozen fingers around a heavy white mug of something hot. And like Arnold, I’ll be back!