Last weekend was a cold and blustery one at Trout Brook Farm in the northeast corner of Baxter State Park. Nighttime temperatures plummeted to around -20F, according to the tenters in our group who squatted out in the field.

Inside the bunkhouse, however, temperatures were a balmy 70F or higher, often forcing the occupants (including yours truly) to strip down to long johns to avoid any uncomfortable sweating.

The bunkhouse at Trout Brook Farm.

"Put another log on there, would ya Andi? It's dipping below 80F in here and I'm feeling a bit of a chill."

"Peppermint schnapps in their cocoa anyone?"

"Jeff, there's a knock at the door. Must be those damn tenters again wanting to get warm. Tell them they can't stay long."

"More cheese and crackers?"

"Great Scott! I've only two more cans of Boddington's Ale left!"

Yes, it was hard, but we managed...

Saturday's objective was nearby Trout Mountain. A hour of fun snowshoeing got us to the top and rewarded us with wonderful views of the Baxter wilderness, including Traveler Mountain, Bald Rock and Long Pond. Disappointingly, the big one, Mount Katahdin, wasn't visible from this vantage point.

Traveler Mtn., Bald Rock, and Long Pond from Trout Mtn.

We lunched in the lee of the summit, in a windless, sunny little bowl. We munched and chatted and warmed our faces in the sun.

The trail down the other side was hard to decipher, so Phil led us off on a bushwhack, slipping and sliding and hooting and hollering on the steep pitches, all the way down to beautiful, quiet Littlefield Pond. From there, we chugged our way back to the bunkhouse and happy hour.

Snowshoeing along Littlefield Pond.

Jeff signals his approval of the bunkhouse as the woodstove heats up.

We're back by late afternoon, tired and happy, and we sit about the bunkhouse and relax. I am slouched in a chair by the woodstove, beer in hand, semi-comatose, and loving it, until...

Suddenly there is a whole lot of activity. A loud hissing sound. Lots of shouting. Bodies scattering in all directions.

Somehow the gas canister of one of the lanterns has come loose in Andi's hands and is now spewing a jet of butane-propane mix into the room.

This is not good.

Another lantern is also on. A gas stove is running. And eight people in very flammable clothing are in a very small space. If spewing gas meets open flame, we're gonna have one big time indoor barbeque.

The gas canister gets booted outside into the snowbank. We are saved from immolation. Heart rates return to semi-normal. Nervous chatter subsides.

The night sky is brilliant. Orion. Pleiades. Big Dipper. Moon rise. A spectacular show. But it's cold again and we can't stay outside for long. Except, of course, if you're a tenter. Hah!

Breakfast. I'm sitting quietly at the picnic table, stove going for coffee water, reading a book. Not paying real close attention to any activity around me.

My dear friend Andi is now handling her stove. A gasoline stove. The fuel bottle is overpressurized and suddenly begins spraying white gas in my direction, where, conveniently, my roaring stove is also located.

Good God, I think, am I really meant to die this way? Flash-fried to death in a wilderness cabin?

I can see the ugly headline now...

CAMPER INCINERATED. BODY PARTS CARRIED OUT IN SMALL ZIP-LOCK BAG.

But nothing ignites and the fuel bottle is tossed out into the snowbank. Whew!

It's an uneventful, but cold ski out under blue skies. As I glide along, though, I ponder buying a lightweight fireproof suit for Andi's next hut trip...

Headed out...

I can smell a late breakfast in Patten already!