If left to my own devices as a child, I would invariably end up covered in pine sap and brambles, halfway up a tree somewhere in our backyard. I would like to say that this changed as I got older, but my college housemates never questioned who was the culprit when pine needles were found in the shower. “What were you doing?” Rissa would ask in exasperation. “Rolling around in a tree?”

More likely I was writing a paper in the “al fresco” classroom, a stand of pines not far from our library. The point remains: I regularly gravitate to the outdoors. Which is why whenever I return to Maine, regardless of the season, I almost always head off on a hiking trip right away.

Whether you actually enjoy hiking or not, few Mainers can deny a measure of pride in the state’s natural beauty. We boast about 6,000 lakes and ponds, 32,000 miles of rivers and streams, 17 million acres of forestland, 3,478 beautiful miles of coastline and 2,000 islands. Acadia National Park alone offers 120 miles of hiking trails, some so close to the sea that you can taste the salt mingling in the air with the thick scent of pine. Further inland and deeper into the forests and the hills lies the most northerly leg of the Appalachian Trail, which winds 276 miles through Maine before ending at Mount Katahdin. While nature can be enjoyed anywhere in Maine – the recent eviction of wildlife from under the hood of my neglected car can attest to that – tramping along these many hiking trails is a special pleasure.

In some of the northern and western reaches of the state, getting to a hiking trail can be almost as much fun as the trail itself. Small towns appear along the logging routes, peppered with minimarts offering Gifford’s ice cream, hot dogs and sundries and sporting a single gas pump. Family businesses and log-cabin diners sell pie and fried clams. Service is almost never impersonal.

I stop in one such minimart to buy crackers and peanut butter for the trail. The cashier, a moon-faced woman in her mid-50s with sharp, bright eyes, glances at my boots while she counts my change. “Headed out for a bit of a hike?” she asks me. I grin and nod my reply. “Enjoy it – it’s getting warm out now, but not yet too buggy.” She waves as we leave, the bells on the door tinkling at our heels.

I have loaded up my beat-up Camry “Maggie” to tackle the back roads past Brownville, where I hope to pick up the Appalachian Trail. I take at least one wrong turn in my pursuit of the trailhead. My hiking companion and I stop to dislodge a branch easily mistakable for a small tree from the undercarriage of my car. “You know that the trail you are trying to find will be tourist-free,” I note wryly, “if you have to occasionally ponder the question, ‘Is this still a road?'”

The somewhat treacherous turf and wrong turns were worth it. We park the car at last and set off on foot, quickly disappearing into the woods. While my hiking companion soon outpaces me; I’m in no rush. Sunlight streams in low, filtering through the trees to dapple the ground. Though the day is warm – I am more than comfortable in my T-shirt – snow still lies in small piles in the lower reaches of a gorge, competing with the patches of verdant new grass. The birds and the crunch of twigs under my boots are the only sounds.

Following blue mark to blue mark, cairn to cairn along the trail becomes a meditative routine, freeing up my eyes and my mind to seek out the smaller details. There are signs of moose, and the subtle crushing of underbrush mark where animals have passed. Stonework, carefully set in place by an Appalachian Mountain Club trail crew, diverts water away from the trail. At midday, we find a sunny patch of rocks on which to eat our lunch. Stretching my muscles, I remember how much I have missed hiking in the Maine woods.

We find our way back to my car an hour or so before sundown and begin the drive back home. Two Gifford’s waffle cones and some 60 miles of road later, we are pulling into my parents’ driveway.

“How was the hiking trip?” my father asks. Then, before I can reply: “Don’t track pine needles into the house, will you? Shake out your things in the garage.”

Some things just don’t change. Thankfully.

Meg Adams, who grew up in Holden and graduated from John Bapst Memorial High School in Bangor, shares her experiences with readers each Friday. For more about her adventures and to e-mail questions to her, go to the BDN Web site: bangordailynews.com.