My homeboy Jesse is a bold visionary. A few years ago, he got it in his head that he should buy some land for a future homestead, summer retreat, or just a place to burn things unimpeded by the law.
He secured 30 wooded acres of central Maine sweetness, located in a tiny town, two miles down a seasonal logging road. Every year he convinces a few dudes to camp there in the dead of winter. This year, I was one of those dudes.
Jesse’s closest neighbor, Old Man Pritchart is still a good 20-minute walk away on a day without snow, not that you’d ever want to walk to his house. He lives there year-round with no electricity or running water.
He collects old speedboats and engine blocks in his front yard. The most recent addition to his collection is a dilapidated trailer he stole from Jesse’s property.
We only saw his snowmobile tracks which is good. I didn’t want to be there for the awkward “hey you stole my trailer” conversation. Also, we don’t know his real name.
It can be said that men lack a genetic predisposition for planning which can both a strength and a weakness. In the strength category: we make shopping quick. Our entire shop at Walmart essentially consisted of sausages, beans, donuts, and a machete.
In the weakness category, we’d be eating nothing but sausages, beans, and donuts the entire trip. Sorry, in the strength category, we’d be eating nothing but sausages, beans and donuts the entire trip.
Plus, hey… machete.
We opted to drive to the camp through a foot of snow in three SUVs. With The Final Countdown blasting, comfy leather seating and the four-wheel drive engaged, it’s hard to believe this is a terrible idea. Until you have to get out, dig, and push over and over again for an hour and a half. Then it’s obviously a bad idea.