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January, 2007
A Day at Big Squaw
By Patrick Abbott
E
ach summer thousands of commercial and private boaters from all over the world come to the Forks area to paddle the Kennebec and Dead rivers. They enjoy the pristine beauty and isolation of the Dead and the heart pumping thrills of the Kennebec gorge as well as the hospitality of the many local resorts, outfitters and purveyors of social lubricants. But I fear that few of these energetic outdoor enthusiasts know that less than eight miles (as the crow flies) from Harris Station is one of Maine’s lesser known, but no less beautiful or exciting, outdoor recreation areas. Big Squaw Mountain Resort is situated on the southwest shore of Moosehead Lake in Greenville. Its slopes are cut on the side of Big Moose Mountain which until a few years ago shared its name with the resort. Due to the offensive nature of the word “squaw” to native peoples the Maine legislature decided to change all place names in the state which contained the word.
At Big Squaw they recommend that you, “Ski The View” and with a summit elevation of almost 3,000 feet that is no problem. Magnificent views are in every direction with Kineo and Big and Little Spencer Mountains to the north and Maine’s highest peak Mt. Katahdin just of to the northeast and laid out in front of the resort like an enormous white down comforter is Moosehead Lake. The trail system faces almost due north for superb snow retention that is if we ever get any snow. Curse you internal combustion! This leads me to the sad reality of Big Squaws current situation. If you hate crowds then Big Squaw is the place for you. The tiny amount of visitors Big Squaw receives each season means that they cannot afford to run their snowmaking equipment, which does cover 70% of the trails when operational. The problem with low visitor numbers and inadequate snow in recent years is so bad that they haven’t been able to open the top half of the mountain. This is the reason that I have not been to Big Squaw in five years. All of the expert terrain is accessed from the summit chair and with that closed there is little appeal for advanced skiers. This is truly a sad situation because the tickets at Squaw are amazingly affordable at only $15 dollars all season any day of the week and no lines! Unheard of in today’s world of paying 60-70 dollars to wait in lines all day. These qualities were what brought my father and me up to Big Squaw mid winter in 2002.
From West Forks Big Squaw is about an hour away. Depending how fast you are comfortable driving on logging roads covered with snow and ice that is. You head north on 201 to the Capital Road which becomes the Somerset Road about half way to Rockwood. The logging roads are all pretty straight and well plowed and with good tires you can cruise along at fifty to sixty miles and hour. Soon enough you find yourself in Rockwood and then it’s just a short drive down state route 15 to the access road. Our journey to the mountain was without incident and we took several sweet runs on almost totally deserted trails. I was really enjoying the vintage appeal of the mountain. You get the feeling like you’re in a time capsule while skiing at Big Squaw. Aside from the recently expanded accommodations I don’t think much has been done to the place since it was first built. The “safety” padding around the lift poles was particularly humorous. It consisted of old foam mattresses in varying states of decay wrapped in blue tarps and tied to the posts. Some of these bundles had burst open and their decomposing innards were spilling out onto the trail. I loved it. It was pure skiing, nothing fancy just a lift and some slopes.
As my father and I cruised down one of the trails we came up on a snowboarding ski patroller and my father, who was slightly in front of me, went to pass him or the right near the edge of the trail. Just as he was passing, the patroller made a turn and they collided, sliding off the trail and just into the woods. I skied up chuckling but soon realized my father was actually injured. The wind had been knocked out of him and he had a broken collar bone. A sled was called and we headed down to the patrol station where he was given a sling and the patrollers recommended that he go down to Greenville and have his shoulder checked out. We drove to the Greenville hospital which turned out to be quite the time capsule itself. As my father was being treated I poked around and found a strange installation in one of the walls of the hospital. There was a metal pad on the floor that looked like a scale with impressions of two feet on it. On the wall above the pads at eye level was a gauge. This didn’t strike me as weird or anything until I noticed what it said in lightning bolt letters under the gauge, “electrometer” and the date 1956. I immediately jumped off the foot pads. They weren’t able to offer much in the way of treatment at the hospital. Some pain killers, a better sling and a prescription for more drugs. We headed off for the bumpy logging road drive back to the Forks.
As we stated out on the logging roads my father would wince and take sharp breaths with every bump. He told me to slowdown and I obliged. We crawled along at about 30 miles per hour for a few miles until we came up behind a moose which started trotting down the center of the road as we came up behind him. Most people do not consider moose to be very graceful animals and as this one waddled and awkwardly trotted down the road I thought to my self “what a goofy creature.” On each side of the road the snow banks were over 12 feet high and the moose had no intention of venturing into the deep snow when he had a nicely cleared path in front of him. Our pace had been slowed to maybe ten miles an hour and my father grew impatient thinking of the comfort of his bed. “Pass him.” Was his advice and I went for the pass on the moose’s right. We were soon up to 15 and rapidly drawing closer to the beast. To my surprise he also increased his speed not wanting to give up his place on the road. I depressed the accelerator more and the moose went into a full sprint. I had never seen a moose run all-out before and it was an amazing sight. It was as if he hit his power stride and all the awkwardness in his gait was gone. All limbs moved in perfect unison and he was a majestic galloping quadruped. As I came up along side the behemoth I glanced at the speedometer and saw 30 miles per hour. I was on a backwoods, snow-covered logging road drag race with a moose! I looked to my left and looked directly into the eye of the beast running full tilt less than two feet from the side of my truck. As we made eye contact I saw its one eyeball bulge and the beast lunged! My heart went into my throat but my foot stayed on the accelerator as we rocketed away down the road and the moose jumped not into the side of our vehicle but into the huge snow bank on the side of the road. That moose went from 30 mph to zero in less than a second and about twenty feet of distance. I looked in my rearview and saw it struggling in the deep snow slowly making its way up the bank towards the dark, cold, woods.
Moose or no moose Big Squaw is a great mountain and deserves more skiers so the next time we get some decent snowfall give them a call, (207) 695-1000, and ask if they have the upper mountain open. If they don’t, then buy a ticket, take the lift up half way strap some skins on your telemark setup or hike up to the top and earn some turns. You won’t regret it.
Patrick Abbott is a 27-year-old diplomat. He represents long boarders in negotiations with all other beings. A college student in Vermont on the 10-year plan, he advocates for sharing the road, and running the river. With any time not spent skiing, hiking, boating or skating he's searching for clues at the scene of the crime. He has spent summers in West Forks forever and yes ladies, he is single.
Email nick [at] noumbrella [dot] com with your questions, comments and concerns.
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