Reprinted, with permission, from the spring edition of Maine Fish and Wildlife Magazine.

A clear bright February day greeted me as I stepped out the front door. The deep blue sky promised another day of crystal diamonds reflecting from the endless sea of snow.

My mission, on this day in 1993, was to take a job-shadow student with me as I made my rounds in the West Branch Pond region to tag some beaver pelts. After a brief stop at the office to pick up my student, we headed north to a point where trucks stop and snowmobiles take over.

Upon reaching our destination and accomplishing the task at hand, a cup of coffee and a fresh cookie from Carol Sterling put us back on patrol. I informed the student that warden work was unpredictable: You never know what’s around the next corner. Little did I know that this day would prove to be another one of those days.

The day went by quickly and I headed for home. As I pulled into my dooryard and stepped out of my truck, my eye caught the beautiful night sky. Sharp cold air stung my face. Ahh … winter, I love it!

Stepping inside, the luscious smell of supper greeted me as I cracked the door. As my foot landed on the stairway to supper, the phone rang.

“The sheriff’s office,” my son said, handing me the phone.

The dispatcher said, “I’ve got a couple of lost skiers.”

“Where?” I asked.

“Gulf Hagus,” was the reply.

My heart fell. No other place in Maine could be more treacherous in snow than that seven-mile gorge. Full of twisting, winding water contained by jagged cliffs, it is a beautiful place in summer. In winter it is changed into a place full of traps; areas that wait to let go at the slightest touch and send you avalanching to the river below. It could be a prison of ice and snow.

Gathering some gear, I left supper on the table knowing that time was absolutely critical. At minus 20 degrees, a person in trouble doesn’t stand a chance. I activated Warden Tom Ward to help and notified Sgt. Dan Tourtelotte, who would coordinate the rest of the help we would need to find them.

The first strike would be critical. Quickly going to Little Lyford Pond Camps, where the couple had been staying, I discovered that they were last seen at 9 a.m. Their plan was to cross-country ski to the head of the gorge. They had planned to return after they had a picnic lunch. They were warned to stay out of the gorge area.

Leaving the camps I met Warden Ward and Bud Fackleman of the Lyford camps, and we briefly discussed what to do next.

The tracks, last found, headed down the gorge. Pondering our options, one thing stood out. If we were to find them alive, we could not make an error along the way.

Shortly after 6 p.m., we put on our snowshoes and headed in. The depth of the snow made each shoe fight to break free. Every inch of ground tonight was to be earned with a painful price. Stopping after only 200 yards, we shed our jackets. It was hard to believe one could be sweating on such a bitter, cold night. Dressed down to a sweater, we followed a narrow trail of two skiers whose destination was unknown. The first mile was grueling, but little did we know what lay ahead.

As the trail got closer to the canyon, it became a series of small, sharp hills that, in powder snow, drained you of all your strength. On skis, it was almost impossible.

After about an hour of thrashing through the snow, our worst fear became a reality. The tracks headed down the gorge instead of continuing on the difficult trail. What looked like a quiet ribbon of snow was actually a violent river with a thin layer of snow hiding its danger. Already exhausted, we stopped to ponder the situation.

After a quick cup of tea and a shared box of raisins, we decided not to risk traveling down the gorge. Our only option was to walk the treacherous rim and work our way along. The lip of the gorge in the dark was full of false ledges that could give way as one approached, falling 100 feet below to the canyon floor.

The depth of the snow made it difficult to read and the darkness only compounded the problem. Our flashlights would just reach the bottom of the gorge showing us two thin tracks heading for disaster. Flashlight batteries were fading and portable radios were losing their juice in the cold. Wardens were coming in to back us up, but for now it was up to us to track the lost skiers.

After two hours of life-draining snowshoeing, one thing became ever so clear in our minds. We were approaching the point of no return, the wall, a place where you look death in the eye, a place where the safety net can’t reach you. If anything went wrong from this point on, no one could get to us in time. With the dim light of a worn-out flashlight, we moved on. Hours of endless suffering crept by. Little hills became big ones. The endless ski tracks just wouldn’t stop.

Suddenly, hope returned. The ski tracks escaped the grip of the gorge, finding the only path of escape out of the frozen walls. The tracks indicated panic now. They were irregular and signs of confusion became more and more evident.

Now, out of the gorge itself, our lost skiers were battling the sharp terrain of its outer rim. The twisting, winding ups and downs that drain an already exhausted person were taking their toll.

As we approached Screw Auger Falls, another fear came to light. The Appalachian Trail intersects with the Gulf Hagus trail. If the skiers took the Appalachian Trail, we couldn’t follow. The only chance we had to save ourselves was to push to get out of the gorge before the cold claimed us as well.

At midnight, as we approached the falls under weak light, a shout rang out.

“Help! We’re over here!”

Two forms appeared in the faint light. One was covered by a space blanket. The other was moving around some. Both were clearly cold. The evidence of a failed fire at their feet told us why.

Bob Constantine, who fell through the ice while in the gorge, was severely hypothermic. His wife, Jessica, while not wet, was close to hypothermia herself. Quickly, we gave them our jackets and remaining food and started a fire to warm them and us.

Soon, the light of the fire brought hope where there was none before. The worn battery of the portable radio held true for one last transmission. “We got them at Screw Auger Falls.”

Once stopped, we began to stiffen up, and each trip for firewood became more and more difficult.

Plans were made as Warden Don Annis struggled to get as close as he could with a snowmobile, bringing with him badly needed clothes, snowshoes and boots for the lost skiers.

The mission took on its final phase: moving them out. Step by step, the final mile went by. To a snowmobile and then to the emergency medical technicians who waited the night for the exhausted, frozen skiers. Once the Constantines were tucked in back at Little Lyford, we headed the sleds for home. Soon all the gear was loaded, and the warmth of the old truck never felt so good. We headed for home.

Legs aching, I drove into my dooryard just as the sun was making its appearance for another day. Twelve grueling hours of the most difficult terrain ever imaginable. Two lives saved from certain death. Just another unpredictable day in the life of a Maine game warden.