I was first introduced to the Rangeley region nearly 30 years ago when a group of friends invited me to spend a week at their snowmobile camp in Byron. I’d never been to Maine or to a ‘camp’ and I’d never even sat on a snowmobile. But I was young and always up for an adventure.

It is important to note that I was raised in the military. I am from everywhere and nowhere at the same time. By the time I was 18, I’d lived in a dozen cities spread over two continents.  Moving was the name of the game, and I’d never lived anywhere long enough to establish roots.

For my snowmobile camp debut, I packed a bag with what I thought was cold-weather gear. Blue jeans with tights to wear underneath, plenty of colorful cotton socks to layer for warm feet, brand new stylish boots purchased at my favorite mall boutique, and a couple of long sleeve shirts that were more fashionable than they were warm.

I loaded up in an overfilled truck and we took our place in a line of vehicles and snowmobile trailers. Our little convoy set off from what was then home to here. My adventure had begun!

Most of the Friday evening trip was made after sunset and we arrived at camp in the dark. My first experience of Maine was shrouded in darkness. All I knew is that we were far from civilization because I hadn’t seen another set of headlights for many miles.

As we settled into our respective bunks that first night, I had no idea how much the week ahead would end up changing the direction of my life.

I also had no idea of how uncomfortably cold winter recreation in the Maine outdoors could be, especially with a lack of proper attire. My thin cotton gloves did little to stop the biting chill as we drank mugs of hot coffee outside the next morning.

I wondered why we were outside trying to down hot coffee before the crisp mountain air cooled the steamy liquid. Inside was toasty warm from the wood stove that had been fed all night. Yet there we stood, outside in the throes of winter with our rapidly cooling coffees. It was how we prepared to be outdoors for the day, I was told. If I spent too much time next to the woodstove, I would get overheated and then sweat when I put my gear on. Heat and perspiration would make me colder, or so I was told. I couldn’t imagine being any colder than I was that morning.

As everyone started gearing up for our first run, I realized that my coat, as well as my gloves, would not serve me well in the weather we were facing. Thankfully, someone had an extra pair of flannel lined work gloves I could use.

Near the door hung a snowmobile jacket that looked like it had been hanging in that spot since the day the rustic camp was built. I was told I could use the jacket for the week under the condition it was returned in the same condition I found it. I was confused by these instructions because under a layer of fine dust, the jacket had a distinct odor that combined musty camp with campfire and exhaust fumes. The jacket also had a large rip up the back that had been thoughtfully repaired with reflective tape from someone’s toolbox.

I had assumed the jacket held some sort of sentimental value, but I assumed wrong. It turned out, this jacket was the community jacket for late night trips to the outhouse!

This was not the look I was going for at all.  I was mismatched and wearing what was essentially a community robe. At least I was warmer.

Among our group, there were a few newer snowmobiles but most of my friends had well-used snowmobiles that were still ‘new enough’. There were also  a couple of older models that didn’t have any of the bells and whistles the others had. I was assigned one of these older models. I was told the suspension wasn’t great and there were no hand warmers but since I didn’t know better I wouldn’t notice. Its vinyl seat, like my jacket, had a duct tape repair job. The tape had shifted just enough to leave a line of sticky residue that stuck to my snow pants – the only good gear I had brought with me.

I wanted an adventure and I was surely getting one!

My first lesson with the snowmobile was a quick one as the rest of the group was ready to go. I was instructed to start the machine by pushing the primer plunger exactly twice and about halfway once before quickly pulling a tightly wound rope twice. If I followed the directions precisely, the ancient machine would start on the third pull. Believe it or not, it did start almost every time with those instructions.

After another quick lesson in operating the machine, we took off to town for lunch and supplies. Naturally, I was the slowest of the group and found my place second to last in a line of about a dozen snowmobiles. I am sure my caboose friend was wishing I’d stayed home so he could catch up with the rest of the group. I didn’t understand why at the time, but I wasn’t allowed to be last. Something about safety or some other nonsense.

I cruised along at what I thought was a pretty decent clip, but I just couldn’t seem to catch up with the rest of the group. Since the speedometer didn’t work, I had to guess my speed. I guessed I was ripping along at about 40 mph. Turns out, I wasn’t ripping at all. I was tooling along at a top-speed of 8 mph and that was only on the straightaways.

I finally caught up to the group but only because they had stopped. I was worried about my pace but no one else seemed to mind. When I quieted my machine and pulled off my helmet, I could hear them reminiscing and laughing about their first snowmobile rides.

“Everyone has a first day at everything they do,” I was told.

When we started out once again, instead of focusing intently on operating my machine, I was able to relax a little and finally take in the Maine landscape. I was not prepared for the winter wonderland before me. Stark white snow cloaked dark green boughs of the trees that lined the shores of silver capped lakes. In the background, dark silhouettes of mountains were painted on a gray winter sky. The sun tried to break through the cloud cover and the result was a muted sepia colored photograph of the most beautiful landscape I’d ever seen.

Rangeley’s hub came into view as we crossed the lake and moved closer to shore. As much of the world I’d seen up until that point, I thought Rangeley was the most charming and characteristic town I’d ever visited – and I hadn’t even gotten there yet!

We made a lot of stops on that first run into town. I remember visiting lots of shops and businesses and feeling as though I belonged to this little hamlet that took its spot on a map further north than I’d ever been. At each of our stops, we were warmly welcomed. One proprietor remembered the name of one friend who had been making regular trips to Rangeley for years.

When we stopped for lunch, our ragtag team parked alongside a group of folks who each had fancy brand-new electric start machines. Not once was anyone in our group made to feel unwelcome or looked down upon, even with that big strip of duct tape holding the back of my borrowed outhouse coat together. We made friends with a few of our parking lot neighbors and would spend time that winter visiting each other’s camps to share meals and laughter.

We were genuinely welcomed by everyone we encountered.

That winter, I tagged along to camp every chance I could. I got the right gear and left the fashion show at home. I bought a ‘new enough’ snowmobile with much better suspension and heated grips. I stopped holding up the last person in line and even led the pack a time or two.

I looked forward to the days we left camp and journeyed into town. For the first time in my life, I felt like I had found where I belonged. Western Maine called to me and by the time the ice was out of the lakes that year I had relocated to a nearby town. After a lifetime of not settling down, I found my home.

Rangeley and its people were my first impressions of rural Maine. The welcoming kindness and genuine friendliness from everyone I encountered on my first day in town is not something I’d experienced elsewhere.

Recently I began reacquainting myself with Rangeley. After three decades, there have been plenty of changes, but I’ve found that the community is the same. My interactions with residents and visitors alike have been nothing short of warm, receptive and helpful.

To be welcomed into a town twice decades apart verifies what I knew after my first visit: The Rangeley region is remarkable. Rangeley’s location, tucked between pristine waters and remote wilderness, makes it paradise for the outdoor enthusiasts. But, its sense of community is what puts this tiny town on the map.