The porch was warm and the windowsill was lined with wine bottles for Thanksgiving dinner. I snuck out of the kitchen and scooped up my niece in a bear-hug to steal her away for a moment while the cranberry sauce thickened. The house smelled of turkey and pie and the yard was covered in festive winter snow. There was plenty to be thankful for at Red Quill this year and I watched the snow falling as I played with my niece.
I woke up still stuffed with turkey and mash potatoes and looked out of the window to the sun streaking through the frozen tree branches. The snow was lightly falling and everything was covered in glistening white powder—8 inches of new snow!
I headed to the mountain, giddy with anticipation for the first turns of the year on the slopes. Saddleback wasn’t open for the season yet, but I peeled my climbing skins apart and stuck them to the bottom of my skis and we started cutting through the powder to the top of the mountain in the morning sunshine.
Near the top I pointed my tips down the slope and let the first turns of the year rip! The cover was a little thin and I hit a few rocks tucked under the white surface, but as long as I didn’t dig my edges into the snow I could manage without getting too many core-shots to the bottom of my skis. I let the powder fly, occasionally cringing at all the little rocks I could feel underfoot, and then rejoicing when I found deeper snow to turn in. I hooted and hollered leaving a poof of snow behind me. The first ski of the year is pure joy; our laughter rang out on the mountain as we remembered the magic of skiing fresh snow.
sunset on the river
The loons are singing their last calls before flying south for the winter; it is chilling to hear them calling at night and I know it may be one of the last times I hear them for a while. Each time that I hear them I become very still to soak in every last note.
last day of fishing
The river is much colder as I wade in it on the last day of the fishing season. The leaves are starting to turn red and yellow along the riverbanks and the maple leaves match the brook trout’s red fins and bellies. I fish in the cool evening air until my feet start to feel numb and my fingers hurt from pulling brookies off my fly in the cold water. I can smell a few skunks as I walk back to camp at dusk.
I sit with my little two year old niece around the campfire and tell her the story of how the night sky was made. She snuggles into my lap in the cold autumn night and we gaze at the brilliantly speckled sky. When the story ends she simply gazes skyward and a loon calls in the night. I suck my breath in and say “Did you hear that?” “Listen it might call again.” And we both listen for its haunting clear call. I let the sound surround us and we stay still and silent for a bit after its call. Then she stirs in my lap peering at the low burning fire and I pull a log out from the nearby pile, brushing off a few fallen leaves that have collected on the pile and add it to the fire. We sit up late by the fire and listen to the night sounds and watch the starry sky above us and the bonfire flames at our feet.
Nyana at Red Quill
It is Autumn; a time for harvesting the last of the summer’s abundance, soaking in the last bit of warmth during the day, building the first fire in the wood stove at night, and pulling out the winter wool blankets.
Turing onto Quimby Pond Road with the warm summer air coming through my open car window I can’t help but smile. Seeing the road sign makes me instantly feel like it is truly summer; I am almost at camp where campfires, berry picking, and summer relaxing resides. Soon I will sit on the porch and have a summer drink— there will be yard games and canoeing and fishing.
In the evening I slip away and sit on the front steps looking at the stars in the clear summer sky, the loons call on the water sending shivers down my arms…or maybe it’s the cooler air. It is mid-August, and the weather has turned cool at night, perfect for sleeping, but not too cold to close the windows and I keep listening to the loons as I curl up in bed.
On my morning walk to the pond the sun pierces the mist rising out of the trees and turns the pond pink as it chases the last of the mist off the water. Three mallard ducks swim in front of me on the shore and a belted kingfisher flies from the tree next to me. It swoops low to the water as it hunts and his blue wings flash in my direction. I pick raspberries as I walk back, ready for another day of summer at Red Quill.
Happy Summer Solstice! June brought the official start of summer and it was a great month for fishing and basking in the sun. It has been warm and sunny in Rangeley, with occasional rain to keep the water cool for the fish. It’s that time of year when the garden salads are plentiful, the days are sunny and warm and the fish are biting.
When the road-side fishing holes are full of fisherman and everyone is vying for the same fish, I reel in my line, pack a bag for the day and get on my bike to find the places that you can’t drive to. With my flyrod in one hand, handlebars in the other and the sun on my back, I take to the woods and follow the rivers along the old woods-roads for the day. Often, the best fishing holes are off the beaten path and take a little effort to get to, but they’re always worth it.
landing a big one!
Whether fishing the rivers, paddling around Quimby Pond, or lying in the hammock, now is the time to be in Rangeley!
early morning fishing