As I read the story about the snowfall in “upstate” New York, it made me think as it sometimes does about the years I lived in Alaska more than 35 years ago. That time in my young life played a significant role in my settling here in Maine 20 years later.

During my first winter in Juneau, the capital of Alaska, my friend John asked me to go cross-country skiing with him and his girlfriend Tina over on Douglas Island, which is across the bridge from Juneau. The plan was to ski the trail to a cabin on the other side of the island, owned by the state and open to visitors anytime without reservation, stay overnight and then ski back the following day.

I had never done skiing of any kind but said, “Sure, I’m game.” We had hiked to the cabin during the previous summer and knew that it had a fireplace and folks were good about making sure they always left plenty of cut wood in the cabin for a nice fire for a couple of days. Moreover, that is a rule amongst hikers staying at lean-tos or cabins open to all. We had scoped out the trailhead a couple of days before and saw that it had a few inches of snow that was packed from previous cross country skiers. We rented skis, boots and poles, put on our backpacks, walked over the bridge and down the road to the trailhead a couple of miles away (none of us had a car) and began our adventure in nature.

Douglas was sparsely populated and the other side of the island was totally uninhabited. It started snowing shortly after we hit the trail. It only took us about an hour to hike the previous summer, so we figured 90 minutes to ski was plenty of time. I was quite “green” and even though I had read several books about wilderness living, I don’t believe any of them ever suggested we check the weather report before going out in the woods and admittedly I looked up to John, who was two years older than me, for wisdom, guidance, etc.

At 18 years old, I routinely, compulsively leapt into situations that had the promise of danger, excitement, thrill. Judgment took a back seat. It seemed as though with every passing 15 minutes or so the snow was coming down harder. I also should tell you that when I rented my skiing boots they didn’t have my size so I settled for a half size too small. They squeezed my toes a bit but I thought I was tough and could handle it ”“ another illustration of how green I was. I didn’t realize it wasn’t about dealing with the discomfort of the boots. Being too tight meant they reduced the circulation in my feet, which in turn allowed the cold to wreak havoc on them.

After about two hours skiing, there was about two feet of fresh snow on top of what was already there and we realized we were clearly in a blizzard. The temperature had also clearly dropped dramatically and the wind was whipping wickedly in our faces, making it very difficult to see, and biting at our exposed flesh. I didn’t know it at the time but with the wind chill the temperature had dropped to 70 degrees below zero. We were freezing, literally at risk of hypothermia and frostbite. By the time we realized that we should have turned back it was too late to do so, or at least that is what we thought. It seemed the trip forward would be shorter than the one back. That’s what we thought, but we were wrong.

At a certain point the skis no longer worked. We just sunk in the deep snow. So we removed our skis, secured them to our backpacks and trudged on through. Another hour or so into the trip we were about chest high in snow and after a short while, Tina could not go any further and gave up. John told her he was not going to die because she wouldn’t go on so he left her there. I was young and foolish and possessed a sense of chivalry, so I half carried and half dragged her. John went full speed ahead towards the cabin in a desperate attempt to save his own life and we lost sight of him. The trail was obliterated, so I was doing my best to recollect what the contour of the valley was like, where the cabin was in relation to it and us and trying to use my thinking skills to get there as soon as possible and save our lives.

The skin on my face was burning from the cold. The pain was brutal in my ears, fingers and toes. My muscles were straining to push, to drag my body and hers through the deep snow, step after agonizing step. I had to invent ways to keep my mind off the pain and on the goal of surviving. After about eight excruciating hours, Tina and I were at the cabin. I had been hoping John found his way and looked forward to the fire he would build to warm our frozen bodies. We found him there, but someone forgot the rule of always leaving enough firewood for a couple of days. And I suspect it was the same boneheads that blew two large holes in the roof with a shotgun.

We arranged our sleeping bags as closely to each other as possible to help keep each other warm and at the same time not get snow on us that was falling through the ceiling. Although we all had excellent sleeping bags we could not get warm. My feet hurt all night long, but less and less as time wore on and the numbness in them grew. I hardly slept a wink.

The next morning, we saw that it had stopped snowing, the wind had stopped blowing, and the mercury rose along with us. It was still far below freezing but much warmer than the day before. It took us about five hours to get out of the woods and into town. I kept falling because I had no feeling in my feet. It turned out that I had gotten a moderate case of frostbite in my extremities. I have some long-term nerve damage but I survived to tell the tale despite being wicked green.

Thank you for reading and have a wicked wonderful and safe week!

To comment on my musings email me at bhardina@journaltribune.com or mail a note to Journal Tribune, Attn: Bruce Hardina, 457 Alfred Street Biddeford. ME 04005.

— Bruce M. Hardina is the Publisher of the Journal Tribune, a singer song-writer, a philosopher, a student of life and the human experience, a columnist, an entrepreneur and family man.

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