What is it?

Indecision; uncertainty; possibility; hope, with a chance of disappointment?

I’m digesting a big change. Pigeons are taking over my apartment, so it’s time to go.

You read correctly. The winged rodents have mobilized and will soon be found traipsing around my apartment… wearing my clothes, eating my food, listening to NPR, and taking lengthy baths in the claw foot tub. Situated on the top floor, I’ve always heard them cooing above, but now, as the scratchy crumbling noises prove, they’ve nested deep within the walls for winter. Even more delicious, their shit is apparently so voluminous that it will no longer be contained by said walls and has begun to spew through the frame of the sliding door between living room and spare room. It’s like my own personal horror movie when I wake to their clawing in the middle of the night. They are going to bust through, and my landlord could give… a… fuck.

So, for that and a few other quirks, it’s time to go. But of course, a decision like that is never so cut and dry, nor particularly comfortable. No, it’s more like anxiety ping pong. Stay or go? Stay or go? Stay or go? What is the right choice? I had worked so hard to build my home there, my damn nest to be appropriately metaphoric about it; but also, I have the offer of a room in the lovely home of a dear friend.

Go. The universe has spoken. She has a space in her home and you have pigeons in yours.

But maybe stay? … And press harder for changes? … with the pigeons… the sink swamp… the crazy inefficient sauna heat?

Stay or go? What will the right choice be?

As is common with shit storms (remember, bird turds are actually shooting out of the walls), this one rolled in at just the right time – days before winter holiday, concurrent with a stomach virus. “Fuck it,” I thought, I’m going on vacation anyways. I reasoned that heading north to Maine was the safer option given that the angry birds may bust through the apartment walls at any moment. When a ceiling has collapsed on your head in the middle of the night (throwback to Apt. 5 in the Bronx), such activity raises an extra level of concern. Also, I refused to let winter break 2016 be a repeat of Bronchitis Bed Rest Marathon 2015.

And so, strong in spirit, weak in body, I cross town to pick up my adventure buddy Imogen (Jenny for short). We then drive for six hours to the heart of Maine where lies a perfect hut-to-hut cross-country ski trail system. Since my introduction to the region five years ago, I’ve returned over and over again to glide through the birch and evergreens with fragrance potent enough to induce an immediate nature high. Peace out Yankee Candle wannabe bullshit. I’m going to the source.

The car ride goes on forever, but that’s part of what makes the place so special – it’s not easy to get to. The last road, aptly named Long Falls Dam Road goes on for almost twenty miles before the trailhead turnoff.

We arrive to the parking area at 4 p.m. with the sun setting, and scramble to gear up and get going. It’s Jenny’s very first ski and I’d forgotten that skiing is, in fact, different from walking. However, unsurprisingly, my friend dives in without any apparent fear and claims her learning space, not letting eminent darkness dictate the pace.

I feel at home on the trail and filled with a peace that let’s me breathe differently than in normal life. For me, putting on the skis is like getting back on a bike after winter… like… putting the skis back on after summer? With the first wobble, my knees and ankles remember the confidence and control that’s required of them and we’re off, swishing along in the dusky light, surrounded by trees, hungry for the next little decent.

So in the same, but different places, Jenny and I make our way to the hut. Tiny wooden signs provide motivation along the way:

Flagstaff Hut 1 mi –>

Flagstaff Hut .5 mi  –>

Flagstaff Hut .2 mi –>

And then we see the warm, glowing lights of our shelter for the night. Made it without the use of headlamps. One of the caretakers lets us know where to settle and we go drop gear in our assigned bunkroom before returning to the main hut for dinner.

Finally, after seven hours of travel, my body can stop, relax… and continue being ill. I force down the sweet potatoes and beef by convincing myself I’m going to need it for tomorrow’s ten-mile ski. My mind is a power to be reckoned with. The meat and potatoes stay down. I will them to stay down, because I’ll need them for tomorrow… because tomorrow we’re going to ski ten miles (and because vomiting makes me cry).

Tomorrow comes. Frittata and bacon is brought to the breakfast table, and finally my mind is defeated.

I approach the kitchen window and dejectedly beg for white toast. The crew warmly delivers. “Jenny,” I say, sensing she already knows, “I’m scared that if we get five miles out and I start puking uncontrollably, it will put us in a bad spot.” Now guilt amplifies the nausea. This is her vacation too. The crew comes through again though by making arrangements for us to stay at this hut another night. I slide down the wooden armchair so that the back supports my head in a “defeated” posture and confirm with two crew members, Cody and Emma, that we’ll be hanging out another night. Jenny slips away to the bunkroom to sleep in, and I meander over to the window of the large common room to gaze longingly at the birches and frozen lake. Cody approaches and asks if there’s anything they can do or offer. “No, thanks so much, just being here is a nice change of scenery.” He, Emma, and I then fall into conversation on where we’re from and life’s adventures to date. Emma travelled from Arizona to reach the huts, wheeling and dealing in thrift shop apparel all the way, and Cody had been a commercial diver near DC before coming back home to Maine. He has interest in long-distance hiking and we chat for a bit on the A.T.

When they return to work, I pop over to visit Jenny who is reading in her little bottom bunk cave. I bemoan our stillness, but being a true sage, she comforts with a Taoist parable. That’s right, my travelling mate keeps these nuggets of wisdom tucked away like lollipops at the doctor’s office for times like these. She shares “The Maybe Farmer,” which goes something like this:

There’s an old farmer whose horse runs away. Upon hearing the news, his neighbors pity him declaring the loss a great misfortune. The farmer responds, “maybe it is misfortune, but maybe not.” The next morning the horse returns with three more wild horses and the neighbors congratulate him on his good luck. “Maybe it is good,” the farmer replies, “but maybe not.” The following day his son tries to ride one of the unbroken horses and is thrown causing his leg to break. The neighbors again comment on the bad luck. “Maybe it is bad luck,” he says. The day after, the army comes seeking young soldiers and the boy cannot be drafted because of his leg. “What fortune!” the neighbors exclaim. “Maybe,” says the farmer.

With the story, Imogen challenges me to shift my mindset, reminding that we did not know what would come of the circumstances. We joke and talk in the little hut cave for a while — nestled deep in the woods, far from our everyday worlds. As our banter naturally ebbs, I return to the library of the main hut and melt into a big leather chair with new perspective on the time to be still.

Not having sat long though, Cody wanders in to peruse the game shelf. “Too bad there’s no Settlers of Catan,” I lament. And with that, he sprints for the kitchen. While scaring them off is indeed a hidden talent, this was a new record. Much to my sick day jubilation though, the tall strapping man with clean shaven head, dense beard, warm brown eyes and distinctive tattoos on his forearms, returns minutes later with the board in hand and a third player, his crewmate Paul, who proceeds to expeditiously defeat us both. There must obviously be a rematch. It is planned for after dinner.

Operation “Embrace the Stillness” continues for the remainder of the afternoon. I observe the coming and going of skiers and listen to the buzz of the crew in the kitchen (silently passing judgment at their music selections).

I read in the big leather loveseat of the library and about a half-hour into a super uplifting book on the tomato industry in America (slash not), sense someone take a seat in the chair next to me. I don’t look up until Jenny, having emerged from our cabin cave, joins on the leather couch. It is Cody who has been there reading.

Jenny and I then decide that a bit of fresh air is in order before dinner and so, after adding layers over our pajamas (permanent vacation ware), make our way to a rocky lookout point on Flagstaff Lake. We trek a quick quarter mile to the bank of the behemoth body of water, transformed by the season into a vast field of ice and frozen snowdrift. One could seemingly walk in a direct line from where we stand to the base of the Bigelow Mountains, which command attention for their scale and starkness against the light grey sky. Biting winds prevent us from taking our gloves off for very long to snap pictures of the dramatic boreal panorama, which no camera could truly capture – try as we might.

Following the jaunt we enjoy a hearty chicken dinner prepared by the crew at a table among other adventurers who then join for our post-meal Catan game. I couldn’t dream up a better scene: wood stove, acoustic guitar, my favorite game and plenty of players. Jenny and I make fast friends with Tucker, a creative-minded fellow in his twenties, and his adventure mate Peter, fifty-something or so, who, as a newbie to the game, becomes the night’s victor.

As circumstances would have it, the forecast warns of a wintry blast two days ahead (on our departure date). If we leave Flagstaff and ski the twelve miles to the next hut, we’ll have to ski nine to get out the morning of the storm and likely get stuck somewhere on Long Falls Dam Road. Not ideal. After weighing the options, we inquire on staying at Flagstaff for one more night and fortunately are permitted to do so. Cody seems jubilant at the prospect of another chance at a Catan victory against us.

Activities for our second full day in the woods mirror the first with plenty of reading, writing, and game playing. However, feeling much better, I also manage a short solo ski. Jenny opts for sledding and a jaunt to the point. While out gliding, I meet Maggie, another twenty-something, who is headed to the hut after a twelve-mile day with a heavy pack. Then returning to Flagstaff myself, I encounter a family from Eastern Mass — Ted, Janice and their college-aged son Brad, who seek suggestions on where to trek. I walk with them to the point and snap their picture. For a hot minute as their guide, I feel like a member of the hut crew.

Following the obligatory evening Catan game, which now involves a whole slough of newly-made friends, we determine that stargazing is in order. And so Jenny, Tucker, Maggie, Brad, Cody and I suit up and head out into the crisp clear Maine night. We walk single file through the birches by the light of our headlamps, like a big glowing caterpillar, until we reach the rocky promontory where Jenny and I have now visited at least a couple times each. We take the few steps down to the snow and ice covered bank, and then everyone is still, with heads tilted to the universe above, completely silent. All we hear is a subtle wooshing – the water moving beneath the ice. I feel grounded, comfortably small, part of something more grand, curious, in awe, and happy to be with others for the moment.

After several minutes, we depart as we arrived, in single file. Cody veers off to tend to a skating rink he’s making for a crewmate. “I gotta get another layer on before the storm!” I think he’s crazy and proclaim that he must have an anchor on shore in case he falls through, and in making said proclamation, volunteer myself as that anchor. He yells at me to join him, but walking out on dark frozen lakes isn’t really my jam as romantic as Eternal Sunshine makes it seem.

“C’mon Western Mass, get out here!” This is not the first time my WestMass roots have been used as a subtle insult.

“Nope, really, I’m too scared.”

“Okay, you’ve gotta do what makes you comfortable, but seriously, I broke through here the other day and it’s literally two feet deep.”

I’m not convinced because obviously I could break through and my legs could just instantaneously freeze and they’d spot us the next morning like statues secured from the shins down in the frozen aqua concrete. Replaying that notion a few times and recognizing its unlikelihood, I venture out at a cautious pace. Upon reaching the little rink (in three minutes versus thirty seconds), I skate around in my boots like a five-year-old. Once Cody is done with the chore of recoating, we make our way back towards the hut. The sky is intoxicating. All of it is intoxicating – the birches, the sky, the glowing hut, the good company. We part ways and I return to my cabin, where Jenny and Maggie converse – Maggie’s been assigned to join us for the night – so it’s an adventure ladies’ slumber party.

The next morning after breakfast, it is time to depart the winter wonderland fantasy retreat castle, though I wish to stay and get snowed in there. Jenny and I prep lunches, repack all our things, and bid farewell to crew and friends. Cody runs out of the kitchen. Though five feet apart, I perceive a hug, but we remain at a distance.

Maybe there’s something there. Friendship, adventure company, other…

…or maybe not…

…but maybe. And there’s at least hope of something good in maybe.

Jenny and I embark on the return journey, reflecting on the highlights of our redesigned holiday. I’ve nearly forgotten about the stomach bug, but my thoughts towards it are not nearly as harsh as when it struck. Without it, there would not have been the stargazing, sledding, and ice-skating; nor, the new connections.

Of course, the vacation would not be complete without one more wrench. Despite our early departure, we get caught in the blizzard and must take cover at a Super 8 in Freeport, Maine. With this last zinger, the whole trip seems to be an allegory for maintaining fluidity and flexibility in the face of the unknown.

I will return home to the big change that I’m still digesting.

Maybe the move will be the best thing ever…

…or maybe not…

…but maybe. And there’s at least hope of something good in maybe.

Our journey recalibrates me, reminding to keep an open mind and renewing my reverence for nature and sense of shelter that is felt, not by walls and roof, but in the company of others.