Here are a few things I would like from Santa, if he would do the labor as well as supply the gift:

- A shallow well. There's water all around my property but I have not yet put in a well.

- A screen door. During the summer, the bugs tend to get in. Then you've got a problem at night.

- Solar panels for heat. Actually, several readers suggested I contact the Maine Solar Institute. Maybe that would be more realistic than waiting for Santa to take action.

- A dock in the river. I know state regs discourage it, but it would make getting into the canoe a lot easier.

- A reliable woodsman. Bob the (reluctant) woodsman has yet to begin the task of thinning the forest. We agreed in July, and we even signed papers. But he has yet to start, and he doesn't return phone calls.

- Gary's phone number. Gary the (energetic) Logger this fall did some cutting in the parcel across from mine. It was a clearcut (which I don't want) but at least he did the work. I think I will call Gary this winter to set up a schedule for spring.

Unless Santa decides to make the contact himself.

Now that the smoke from hunting season has cleared, here's a fact I didn't know:

More bear than moose are taken each year in Maine.

For starters, there are about 28,000 deer shot each year, which I think I knew.

But there were 2,873 bear "harvested," compared to 2,226 moose.

(An aside: The statistics come from the Maine Sportsman monthly newspaper, and they are from 2005. If you question the sourcing, remember that Your Scribe is a humble blogger, not a biologist on retainer from National Geographic).

What surprises me is I never see bears in any form.

I don't seem them near my camp, nor do I witness them being paraded through a given town bleeding all over the bed of a mud-spattered pickup truck.

Only one bear was registered at my local farm store, though there were many deer and moose brought in.

In fact, it reminds me of that old statewide TV show, "So you think you know Maine."

I think I know a little about the state but not that bear are more plentiful than moose. Or at least that more bear are taken each year.

Maybe it's because the moose is part of the state's unofficial marketing campaign.

If you go to a tourist gift store, there are so many moose-themed gifts that you'd think they were as plentiful as racoons or skunks.

(Aside #2: I have never seen road kill in the form of bear, though I have seen dead moose and many a crumpled deer and of course thousands of coons and skunks over the years).

It's true that I don't venture very far into the woods.

My camp is in Franklin County, in central Maine.

Maybe if I spent my time north of Millinocket or west of Greenville, I would be more familiar with the bear.

Of course, the black bear got plenty of ink several years ago during the referendum on making it tougher to hunt them.

Then I did learn more about bears, and the bizarre ways that rancid meet and rotten doughnuts are used to draw them to hunters' stands where powerful guns await them.

Until now the only black bears I was aware of were in Orono, playing for the university's athletic teams.

But I stand educated: there are bears in them thar hills.

Are snowshoes displacing cross-country skis as the hip mode of recreational transportation in winter?

If so, I applaud it.

I have spent an immense number of man hours (and children hours) trying to make nordic skiing work.

With rare exceptions, I just messed up my clothes with ski wax and had to absorb huge laundry bills in addition paying for the equipment.

Your Scribe remembers the era of waxes, and klisters, and tune-ups that the advertisters said would enable you to glide from Kennebunk to Cornish without breaking stride.

But it never worked that way.

I tripped. I fell. I was stopped by fallen trees or obdurate snowdrifts.

It wasn't fun.

I started nordic in the mid-'70s.

It took about a decade for me to figure it out, but you need really good trail preparation to sustain a steady pace.

I used to go through the woods, or over golf courses. But if the terrain hadn't been packed by a plow or snowmobile, you couldn't make much forward progress.

Also, I discovered alpine is much more fun.

And in the late '70s and '80s, Sunday River, Sugarloaf, Mt. Abram, Saddleback, Squaw, and others invested in snowmaking.

These resorts could finally guarantee snow every weekend in winter, and as a result I left the nordic gear disappear in the detritus of the cellar.

Now snowshoeing seems to be getting a promotional push.

L.L. Bean, and its ambitious competitor, the Kittery Trading Post, have set up special venues to sell snowshoes, poles, shoes and many other Town-and-Country-like accoutrements.

Snowshoes have been around forever, of course.

But I am pleased to see their rise in visibility.

Snowshoes are perfect for my camp in Franklin County, which gets a great deal of snow.

I look forward to this winter when I can snowshoe down to the river, and perhaps do some fishing through the ice of the Sandy River.

I could never do that on cross-country skis!

(New topic: I have been in a state of shock since fellow blogger Colleen Stone resigned her position at Maine Today.

She is moving from Portland to Jersey City, N.J.

What is wrong with this picture?)

To paraphrase John-Boy Walton, things are changing on the mountain.

Your Scribe's camp is not actually on a mountain.

If anything, it is on a hillock in the foothills that lead to some real mountains, those in Rangely and Carrabassett Valley.

But I can relate to John-Boy's (a TV character played by Richard Thomas) moments of looking back, and realizing his small community was constantly changing.

On my tiny dirt road, construction is under way.

At the top of the hill, one family converted from a singlewide trailer to a double-wide.

Next to them, a new four-season home is going in with beautiful views of the town below and the Blue Mountains beyond.

Another new home went in on the road last fall, and in addition to that, my neighbor's multiple building "complex" is on the market for $299,999.

(An aside: The sellers were clever enough to keep the price away from the mental barrier of $300,000).

On the other end of my road, about a mile away through farmers fields, are five houses that have been built in the last decade.

Several houses are six-bedroom retreats designed by architects.

Also, there are smaller homes with more property. These people have horses!

(Aside2: Walton's Mountain was fictionally set in Virginia, which is real horse country).

When I bought my land three decades ago, there was only one residence on the road - that of the mailman.

Now there are eight near me, and that doesn't count the big spenders at the other end.

No doubt more will be coming.

The camp is in New Sharon, which is a small river town/farming commnity between Augusta and Farmington.

It is not fashionable but people are finding it.

Despite the "incursion," though, I am still happy there.

We have the cabin, which is a work in progress.

And we have the (Sandy) River, which has been flowing for centuries.

Still, sometimes I revert to John-Boy mode.

I miss the way it used to be.