It was November 1962 when my husband suggested that we take a trip to his deserted family farm on Farwell Mountain in Bethel. Heated with only a woodstove, the farm was 2½ miles up the mountain from Middle Intervale Road and had no electricity.

My husband wanted to hunt for a few days, and then we planned to be back home in Windham for Thanksgiving with my parents.

We headed to Bethel with our two small children, ages 2 and 4, in our 1958 Renault. The car was loaded with food, sleeping bags, toys for the girls and my husband’s hunting gear.

We were hoping to get a little snow, which he wanted for tracking deer. After getting the woodstove going, we had dinner and got ready for bed. When we looked outside and saw a few snowflakes, my husband was excited.

When we got up the next day, it had snowed all night and was piled up to the windowsills. The snow continued throughout the day and by the time it ended, there was 34 inches of fresh white powder. The next day my husband shot his deer just a short distance from the farmhouse. We decided that we’d better try to head back to Windham. After making several attempts with the car, we gave up and went back and started the fire again.

The next day, we each put one of our daughters on our shoulders and tried to hike down the mountain. Needless to say, with snow up to our thighs, we didn’t get far. Again, we went back to the farm, and it looked as if we would be snowbound for Thanksgiving.

On Thanksgiving morning, we received a nice surprise visit when an old friend of the family showed up at our door. His hunting camp was halfway down the mountain road and, coincidentally, he had come up to hunt for the day. After looking at our situation, he offered to hike down to his camp and bring up enough food for our Thanksgiving dinner.

By noontime, our friend returned to the farm, armed with canned chicken, vegetables and cranberry sauce. He stayed and had the Thanksgiving meal with us and promised to return the next day with help to get us out. Halfway down the mountain, he encountered my dad and brother Bob, who were attempting to snowshoe up to the farm to see if we were all right.

On Friday morning we heard a bulldozer coming up the mountain. We were rescued! After loading everything in our car, and with the deer on top, we were towed 2½ miles down the mountain, where my husband’s parents were waiting for us after driving up from Portland.

After a hot meal at a restaurant in Bethel, we headed home. My husband always said that it was the best Thanksgiving that we ever had, but on that cold day in November, it was sure good to get home.

— Special to the Telegram