The Spencer Lake region in the western Maine mountains is home to bobcats, Canada lynx, moose, northern flying squirrels, and many other species Photo by Ron Joseph

The ice auger would have eased my burden on Christmas Day in 2008. But in my haste to pack for a three-hour drive from my Orono home to a friend’s remote log cabin, I’d neglected to pack it. Thankfully, my Tundra truck’s bed contained an axe, chainsaw, tire chains, come-along, shovels, 5-foot pry bar, and three buckets of sand — essential items for traveling the final 15 miles on snow-covered western Maine logging roads.

And now, in late afternoon, having safely arrived at the cabin on Spencer Lake, I debated using my chainsaw to cut a hole in 16 inches of ice. It would have worked, but my drinking water would have been contaminated with chainsaw bar oil. Instead, I used the axe and pry bar. A task that would have taken five minutes with my auger took nearly 30 minutes. Shortly after sunset the pry bar punctured the last inch of ice, sending water gushing to the surface.

Polaris, the North Star and the brightest one in the constellation Ursa Minor, was visible when I trudged to the cabin with two galvanized pails filled with water. It was exhilarating having time to myself to reflect and fully appreciate the holiday by spending several days in the woods.

Settling into a rocking chair with three propane lights ablaze, I read This House of Sky by Ivan Doig as a pot of venison stew simmered and buttermilk biscuits rose atop an antique wood cookstove pulsating heat from a roaring fire.

That night, sleeping soundly in my 1978 L.L.Bean Snow Lion sleeping bag tucked inside a summer bag, I forgot to awaken every few hours to add firewood to the stove’s firebox. By morning, it was minus-9 outside and so cold inside both pails of water froze solid on the wood stove.

Wearing a union suit, wool stocking hat and wool socks, I reignited the fire with birch bark, cedar kindling, and rock maple. Obscured by my own cloudy breath, and barely able to see my hands rubbing inches above the warming stove, I discovered that I was not alone.

Rustling sounds — ones I’d heard during the night and dismissed as mice — once again came from the cedar kindling box behind the stove. Up popped an ermine. His bright white winter coat stood in stark contrast to the dark brown cabin logs. Being deadly mousers, ermines are a cabin owner’s best friend. Mr. Whitey became wonderful company during the weekend. He had no fear of me — a common trait among many Northwoods animals, especially spruce grouse, Canada jay, yearling moose, Canada lynx, and northern flying squirrel.

Ermines frequently explore old, seasonal Maine log cabins in winter to prey on mice. Photo courtesy of Pam Wells. 

Whitey and I shared a breakfast of scrambled eggs and leftover venison stew. Purple grapes, though, mystified him. He rolled each one across the cabin floor before attacking it, like a house cat playing with a catnip-scented stuffed mouse. When Whitey grew bored, he gathered the grapes, one by one, and exited the cabin through a gap between the floorboards and the east wall and cached them beneath the snow-covered wood pile.

Dressed in wool from top to bottom, I stepped onto the porch in Pac boots. Whitey stood on the inside windowsill, front paws on the glass, watching me. The previous day’s snow squalls had delivered an inch of snow — ideal conditions for me to identify animal tracks.

A mile north of the cabin, a straight line of asymmetrical bobcat tracks, made by a large tom overnight, drew my attention. I followed the tracks for 30 minutes before discovering a recently killed yearling buck the wildcat had cached in a stand of northern white cedar. Except for a hind hoof, the entire deer was covered with snow.

I backtracked to piece together the kill. Distracted by a winter wonderland and a dozen pine grosbeaks eating red mountain ash berries, I had overlooked the bobcat’s full body impression in the snow, where he had crouched to conceal himself. An explosion of snow revealed where he had sprinted 30 feet to attack the bedded deer. Bobcats kill deer by crushing the windpipe with their powerful jaws.

After gorging on venison, bobcats cover carcasses with snow or leaves to conceal them from the prying eyes of soaring ravens — a strategy that isn’t always successful. Ravens are among the most observant animals in the Maine woods. Their winter survival hinges in large part on scavenging bobcat and coyote kills. Their raucous calls alert other ravens to a food source. Cooperation and sharing benefits others. But their vocalizations often attract coyotes, which can consume a bobcat’s cache within hours.

The tom’s tracks led from the dead deer to the base of a nearby tall cedar, where I looked up and spotted him watching me. He was crouched on a limb near the trunk, about 20 feet above me. To avoid causing him to abandon his prized kill, I turned and bushwhacked a different route back to the cabin.

In a dense stand of regenerating bigtooth aspen and balsam fir, a network of snowshoe hare tracks was intermingled with tracks of American marten and fisher, two formidable rabbit predators and Whitey’s close relatives in the weasel family.

The new snowfall offered one final gift. Within 500 feet of the cabin, a Canada lynx had crossed the logging road during the night, leaving beautifully distinct footprints in the snow. Its front foot measured 6 inches in width; its hindfoot measured 8 inches in length. On average, lynx weigh 20 to 25 pounds. Their enormous feet, relative to body size, act like snowshoes by distributing their weight across a large surface area, resulting in less pressure per square inch. Being able to walk without sinking in deep snow is an adaptation to life in the boreal forest where winters can persist for five to six months.

That evening, I indulged in a glass of merlot and gave thanks to the Maine woods. Dinner was a feast — wild cranberries harvested months earlier from a nearby bog, Maine wild rice, reconstituted chanterelles, and sauteed grouse breast from a roadkill I’d collected two days earlier north of West Forks. Whitey ate the bird’s head on the cabin floor, leaving a scattering of feathers for me to sweep into a dustpan.

The following afternoon, while I loaded my truck, the ermine emerged from the woodpile carrying a limp white-footed mouse. He paused briefly and our eyes met one last time before he disappeared beneath the cabin. Guilty of being anthropomorphic, I wondered if he was saying goodbye. It’s more likely, though, that he was bidding me good riddance. I had hoped to see Whitey on my next visit in May during smelt dipping season. Although we didn’t reconnect that spring, he did leave me a few scat calling cards behind the Home Clarion wood cookstove.

Ron Joseph of Sidney is author of Bald Eagles, Bear Cubs, and Hermit Bill: Memories of a Maine Wildlife Biologist, published by Islandport Press.