Your Scribe did not make it to Rangeley over the Thanksgiving weekend. One reason is that I settled in front of a warm wood-burning stove, and enjoyed the day indoors. The photo above shows the Jotul stove in its fiery glory.

My cabin has no light or power, so the range of activities is limited. I like to work around the fireplace, often starring into the flames for untold periods. Plato (The Allegory of the Cave) was the only person I ever heard of who suggested that fixating on fire and shadows could be a meaningful activity but that's not bad company to be in.

So I sat by the fire, and with my son, Drew, whiled away hours by cleaning the wood stove, making the fire, feeding the fire, cooking dinner and then feeding the fire before bed.

I used to wonder whether the stove is large enough for the room, which is 24 by 20. But then I reasoned that the point is moot. Though the walls are insulated, the floor and ceiling are not. And the ceiling rises 20 feet at the apex.

As long as there is no effort being made to contain the heat, why wonder about a larger unit. The temperature was about 35 degrees that weekend, and the place warmed up nicely in several hours. It was cold in the morning, however.

Books read over that weekend: "The Smartest Guys in the Room" (the story of the downfall of Enron), and "DisneyWar," a recounting of the challenges of (now-deposed) Disney CEO Michael Eisner several years ago. Former Sen. George Mitchell gets much attention, as he rose to the post of chairman of Disney. But since Mitchell is the patron saint of our family, I decline to reference any compromsing text.

(An aside: We had Senator Mitchell to our Waterville house years ago for a local fund-raiser. It took place just minutes after the mammoth fund-raiser at the Boys and Girls Club, where he was honored. Perhaps six neighbors came to our event. "You can really fill a room, can't you," he joked. Actually, he was pretty good about it.)

Anyway, the Jotul stove (that Drew bought) is a great asset to the cabin. If I spend hours fiddling with the fire and then watching it do its work, so be it.

Hunting big game in Maine is winding down, and those in my corner of Cabin Country did all right, as this blackboard on the porch of the local farm store on Route 2 in New Sharon attests. 50 bucks and 32 does.

But those who read the "fine print" (aka unreadable, on far right) about bears might be amazed. Though only two were reported at this registration site, one weighed 525 pounds!

"It was the largest bear I've ever seen," said Andy, who clerks at the store. "A local guide had scouted an area up near Highland Plantation, (past Anson) and discovered a very large bear. When he got a client (from New York), they returned, and the guest shot that bear."

(An aside: After the pictures are taken, what do you do with a bear of that size? Most New Yorkers don't eat bear. And to go the taxidermy route would be very expensive. I will ask Andy the next time I drop by.)

The tally board also shows a sticker, "Ban Roxanne." That would refer to Roxanne Quimby, who developed Burt's Bees and is now buying land in the Katahdin area that she wants left in its "natural state." That would mean no hunting, fishing or snowmobiling though she reportedly is attempting to compromise with outdoorsmen who see such a plan as a death knell for many activities.

She has talked about creating a Maine Woods National Park, which would envelop much of Baxter State Park. It would be the size of Yellowstone and Yosemite parks combined, according to news reports.

That's an intriguing idea - unless you are an outdoorsman facing the loss of thousands of acres of prime recreational land in the heart of Maine.

And you thought the proposed Plum Creek mini-mansion project at Moosehead posed challenges to those who love the outdoors . . .

Your Scribe recently wrote about green wood - unseasoned firewood - and then strolled down memory lane of fireplaces I have enjoyed.

I neglected to mention my most impressive, that in Portland (on Falmouth Street, near the law school). I am referencing an open brick hearth in a paneled library, and it made the room a delight to spend time in.

I recall an evening when Herb Ludwig of the pop-folk singing group Devonsquare came over to a small party. He was a fun, likable guy and spun tales of the challenges of a trio writing their own music, performing it around New England and trying to break a national album. This is a hard thing to do but he made the effort sound greatly amusing.

(Herb played roles other than storyteller. His day job was as a lawyer, and once he helped get my babysitter out of jail when she was run in on a bum rap by Portland police. She "resisted arrest" when a group she was with was ordered to leave Monument Square).

Herb died during an operation a couple years ago. Everyone who knew him and/or the group was shocked. I still think of him, though, standing along that cozy fireplace, telling rollicking stories of the music business.

As a lifelong introvert (not by choice), it has been my wont to listen to others more vibrant - or talkative - than myself.

Here are a few recollections, though no fireplaces are involved:

Sen. Ed Muskie. I covered the senator on the campaign trail in the '70s, and one day observed him visiting some of the filthiest, most un-OSHAesque workplaces in Maine. At the end of his "tour" of a small sled maker in the Norway area, he cheerfully posed for photos with the wealthy owner. The manufacturer should have been closed down, not buoyed up by a photo session with one of the nation's top lawmakers.

Jean-Bertrande Aristide. He was a key political figure of Haiti when I interviewed him in Portland. Later he rose to be president. He was friendly and spoke with the love and optimism of a later-day Martin Luther King. "Love and brotherhood can save our country." Strange that every Haitain cab driver I have encountered in the last few years has said he is a heavy-handed tyrant who helped ruin the country.

Ken Rosewall. This tennis great played in Portland years ago at an event called the Downeast Tennis Classic. The diminutive Australian was battling in the third set against a rising star named Gene Mayer when the chair umpire, local character Perry Rockafellow, climbed down from his perch and began leaving the building. Rosewall, a low-key guy, quietly asked him where he was going at such a key moment. "I've got to get to the terminal," Rockafellow replied without a trace of self-consciousness. "I don't want to miss the last boat to Peaks Island."

Derrick Sanderson. He once was a well-known hockey star for the Boston Bruins, and was the most self-absorbed newsmaker I have ever encountered. I met him following a lunch he had with several friends. (I didn't eat). He was obnoxious during our interview (which he requested), and then tried to hand me the lunch bill even though I didn't have as much as a glass of water. No wonder he ended up broke and almost friendless.

Audrey Hepburn. Big transition, I know. But I attended one of her last press conferences in Hollywood. A woman reporter asked the actress how she had stayed so slim all her career. Diet? Exercise? "No," she said, in a soft but resolute voice. "I was a child when the Nazis invaded my hometown in The Netherlands. We had to flee them almost every week, and I never had enough food. Doctors told me my stomach didn't fully develop. So as an adult I could never eat very much at all."

Your Scribe did not see any moose in Rangeley this fall but had such a good time that I am returning this weekend.

Here is a photo of a scenic lookout at Rangeley Lake, with some historical context which includes an old photo of a grand hotel that once stood overlooking the water.

A reader gave me a "how-to" about locating moose. Actually, she would be called a "commenter." After I posted a blog about my trip in which I did not see a moose, Nancy gave me some specific advice in the "comments" section:

"You were on the right track, try route 16 out of Rangeley either going towards Eustis or Cupsuptic at or around dusk. They love to hang around in muddy areas we call "moose mucks" so if you see one, they aren't far away. We used to live in Rangeley and one weekend in October went out on the logging roads and counted over 20...they are out there...I also don't recommend driving around in the dark looking for them because by the time you see them, it may be too late for you and your car to stop!!! Good luck."

So I am off to Rangeley again, in hope of seeing a couple of the noble beasts. I am going at dusk, when viewing appears to be at its best.

I hope I don't get too close, like hitting a bull and having it come crashing through the car window.

It appears that those who want a special spot in Maine are heading for the hills.

The above photo depicts the Blue Mountains of Franklin County. I deem them as quite beautiful but I barely noticed them when I bought my property several Ice Ages ago.

Now more developers - and buyers - are looking at the mountains as the next marketable resource. The ocean is much too expensive for most people, and retreats on lakes and rivers are also costly.

In my sector of Cabin Country, new developments such as Hampshire Ridge and Skyline Estates are being built. Right now the construction consists of the roads and sewerage work, but no doubt next spring will find cabins and houses being constructed.

The above photo was taken on Route 134, which runs from New Sharon to Mt. Vernon. Several farmhouses perched on this ridge have glorious views - if I lived there, I might never leave the breakfast deck to pursue the day.

There are many cabins and retreats in ski country, of course. But it seems like the "average" mountains in central and western Maine are being eyed by developers who see them as the next marketplace where people can afford a cabin or camp.

Curiously, I can now see the mountains from my front deck. A (nonappropriate) clearcut across the dirt road has given me a better view (in winter) and I enjoy sitting outside on cool November days and looking into the hills. It's another benefit of having a camp, and as I often say to myself, it was my lucky day when I bought the land.

(An aside: When I purchased the property, the deed said "30 acres, more of less." But when the town revalued all property a decade ago, I got a tax bill based on 18 acres. I complained. But the assessor, with a pronounced Down East accent and a droll sense of humor, replied, "Well, it does say 30 acres more or less. I guess you got less." I did get less. But so be it. I am happy with what I have).

For years Your Scribe lived in fear of green wood. That an upcountry rascal would lay a cord of green on me when I was paying for seasoned hardwood.

Or that green wood would smolder and falter while I hosted a social gathering, and I would be forced to open windows in sub-zero weather. My reputation (such as it was) as an outdoorsman would be severely singed.

But since installing a woodstove in the cabin, I have come to an accommodation with green wood. The logs, some of them pictured above, burn fine in a Jotul stove.

These pieces were cut a month ago as part of the logistically immense project of putting in a well. It is poplar, and it is green. But it burns like a decade-old hard maple in the stove.

In most of my past lives, I had fireplaces. Maybe that is the difference. Green wood could be fatal in a fireplace but the heat generated in an enclosed stove makes it burn with gusto.

When I lived in Waterville, I must have burned a cord of dry every winter. Ninety percent of the heat went right up the chimney.

In Kennebunk, too, the heat went straight up. (I burned pine in those days, and the residue also went skyward - though it likely stuck on the innards of the chimney without entering any celestial part of York County).

Oddly, my best heating and best drawing fireplace was in Mississippi but perhaps that was because it was much warmer outside, and there was no conflict with rising heat interacting with frigid air as we have in Maine. (An aside: That house was 100 yards from the Gulf of Mexico, and I understand it literally disappeared during vicious Hurricane Katrina).

They say we get wiser as we approach our dotage. I don't know if I am smarter now but I do possess a mature, non-discriminatory attitude when it comes to green vs. dry.

Green works for me. And there's a lot more of it on my land than the seasoned, nicely split dry cords that are filling most folks' driveways this fall.

The Hunting and Fishing Store opened at L.L. Bean last weekend, and it's clear they got the fishing part right.

Here is a photo of trout swimming happily in downtown Freeport. And it's clear the little girl at left will remember this moment for some time.

The chance to see (living) trout is rare. This display bodes well for the "theme park" that L.L. Bean officials are reportedly considering.

Wouldn't it be exciting if youngsters could see these native Maine fish in their lustrous, active state?

Displays like this would go a long way to creating an appreciating for the fish, and could raise the popularity of "catch and release" programs.

L.L. Bean was packed Saturday. I don't know what sales figures were but there were hundreds of curious outdoors lovers who visited.

I suspect many got their first eye-to-eye viewing of handsome trout at this colorful exhibit.

One rite of the changing of the seasons in my part of Cabin Country is the "disappearance" of the several hundred plump birds from the Turkey Farm in Franklin County.

Each spring little chicks are brought from Quebec, and released in mammoth but austere pens with the marching orders of grow and prosper.

Motorists can see them develop throughout the summer and early fall. By November they look succulent, even from the road (as shown in photo above).

The Turkey Farm is run by a former newspaperman (why didn't I think of that?), and it appears to be financially successful. I have sometimes gone there in mid-November, only to be told they were all sold out.

On a day last week, a sign outside the farm said they were 62 percent sold out - meaning that more than half of these fowl have been spoken for.

Range turkey costs much more than a store-bought bird. Last year I paid about $35 for a 12-pound bird, when a similar product could have been bought at Shaw's for perhaps $10. But range turkeys are really good; you can tell by the first bite. It's like flying first class. Once you've traveled in the preferred seats, you never want to go back to coach.

In recent years some public figures have deplored farms that raise birds in cages, offering them "no quality of life" before being slaughtered in assembly-line fashion.

I can't speak for caged turkeys, but the range turkeys I know are happy and well-adjusted. When I approached the flock recently, they walked forward with friendliness, style and confidence (perhaps because they mistakeningly thought I was there to feed them). They are living the good life, seeming to be experiencing, if I can paraphrase a famous mantra, "Maine, the way turkey life ought to be."

But that life cycle is rapidly coming to an end. That good living on the range will soon be translated to fine times (for us) at the dinner table come Thanksgiving.

I plan to be one of many who will buy a bird, enjoy its full and succulent substance, and then attest that those quality days in the great outdoors of Maine were not for naught.