Back in November, we found ourselves driving through the mountains in New Hampshire and Vermont. As we drove higher we caught an occasional glimpse of a snow-covered peak — Mt. Washington, of course, but other smaller promontories, as well. My wife, Elaine, was born and raised in the mountains of Vermont and remembers mountains and, in particular, snow-covered mountains, with great fondness.

Living out here on Vinalhaven we don't have many chances to see mountains, let alone snow-covered mountains and often, not much snow, so on those rare occasions when it and we are in proximity she gets a little nostalgic—appreciating the views but also pining for times when those perspectives were an everyday thing.

So it was that I determined to give her the modest thrill she was remembering and made late-winter reservations at a mountain top resort in New Hampshire and presented that gift to her on Christmas when there was no snow on the ground and none on the horizon and the prospect of spending a few days in a snow-covered mountain environment later in the winter was truly enchanting.

By the time we left the other day, she'd seen as much snow as she'd ever seen in her hometown. Her own car was under a mountain of its own as it had been each morning, before we cleaned it off, for many days running and that mountain behind another mountain just outside the window that left us only with the assumption that the car was still in residence or that there was any longer a world outside for that matter.

After shoveling my way out to her car and my truck and driving all around town plowing out friends and neighbors, a few older folks with no means of extricating themselves and my own downtown business, we just made it to the ferry in time to catch our anticipated departure for Rockland.

We brought a shovel, of course, because our mainland car was under one of the little mountains in the Rockland ferry terminal parking lot. We walked from one mountain to another pressing the unlock button on our little hand-held gizmo and listening for the tiny tell-tale click that would distinguish our mountain of snow from the many others so we could begin digging.

Had not others have been doing the same thing it would have been a lot quicker. Eventually, however, we were on our way, on our way to the snow-covered mountains and while her enthusiasm was real, it was diminished somewhat from what I'd felt at Christmas.

Phil Crossman lives on Vinalhaven

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