February is a rough month in Maine. While December can be autumn-like if we’re lucky and while January can be light on the snow at times, February is winter. Downright winter. And for most years, it’s when the greatest quantity of snow falls. Week after week. In snows during February.

I was talking to a friend the other day when he mentioned how nostalgic certain scents could be. As he said this, I thought of campfires, cologne, coffee, and apple pie. I asked what he was referring to. He replied, “The smell of a 2-stroke engine just started up. There’s nothing like it!” I was forced to agree. If you’ve ever ridden dirt bikes or ATVs (otherwise known as trikes and quads) in the 80s and 90s, you’re most certainly familiar with their very distinct type of smoke. The only other exhaust that holds anywhere near the aforementioned nostalgia is the smell of a diesel truck warming up on a cold winter’s morning. I’d have to say though, dirt bikes and quads – nothing brings me back quite like the smell of their exhaust. Why? Because it once led to so much more than just a bike idling in a driveway. It always led to adventure and a day’s worth of gloriously good times.

This is a quick post about an adventure of sorts Laura and I experienced just last week. We ran into town during a snowfall and on the way back to our home, visited a local hemlock forest as well as spotted some bald eagles perched alongside a field. What was initially a somewhat boring chore-filled day somehow transformed itself into isolated moments about which to write. This is why it’s always important to bring along a camera, wherever you’re off to. If I didn’t have my camera with me during this short trip, I surely would have regretted it.

Have you noticed the sun hovering just a tad bit higher lately? I have. Every morning while Laura and I eat breakfast in the kitchen, I’m forced to close the front window curtains at around 11AM. If I don’t, the sun that slowly creeps across the sky will ever so hesitantly, yet persistently, blind me. As of late though, I haven’t had to close the curtains. The sun’s trail now strides above the window’s edge, out of reach of my tender eyes.

January in Maine is legitimate winter. There are hardly ever any warm days sprinkled in like there might be during November or December. It’s winter. It’s cold. There’s no way around it.