I’m not sure why I think about past summer adventures during the winter. It might have something to do with the sentimental nature of the holidays. Either that or it’s because summer is so distant from the short days and freezing temperatures that we now endure. Whatever the reason, summer’s memories of time spent outdoors seem to come to the fore around the holidays.

It happens often while I sort through equipment – a mosquito net pulled from the depths of a day pack prompts fond memories of a fishing trip. I haven’t needed that net for months, but as soon as I laid my eyes on it, I was transported to a trail that led to a remote pond for a fly-fishing exploit. That day the sky was breathtaking, bright and clear, a brilliant blue so blue it almost made me ache to look at it. This net made it possible to enjoy the day because it was the only thing protecting me from being bled dry by hordes of biting mosquitoes whining around my ears.

After being cued by the discovery of the mosquito mesh, my mind soon made links to the other visions of that day. The drone of the insects was replaced by the sound of trout breaking the water after mayflies. I saw myself approaching the shore of the pond by trail. Throughout my recollections I recalled the place, more than the events that transpired there. I remembered more details about the scene than those which actually happened.

I’m only vaguely certain, for instance, that I caught any fish. I might not have, but I can describe the way the wind backed off that day. The pond is nestled between a ridge to the left and a mountain to the right. The wind became so calm that both features were reflected in detail in the still surface of the water. The way the trout were attacking the insects just at the point of my arrival, the splashing sound they made and my feeling that it was a great day to be fishing became clearer, more present through the memory.

Sometimes it’s not an object at all that reminds me of summer. Memories of one particular hike came to mind recently while doing a most non-summer-like activity, shoveling snow. I can’t explain why, but there I was clearing snow from the walk, when a scene of climbing Katahdin intruded into my thoughts. It happened during a break, so it may have been exercise induced. While catching my breath from shoveling, the next thing I knew I had been transported to the Dudley Trail, at a steep spot just up from Pamola Caves. I was with a new hiking partner who had only been to Katahdin a couple of times before.

He was sure he didn’t have enough reserves to cross Knife’s Edge, hike to Baxter Peak, then make the five-mile trip back to the truck. I can still hear my words to him on the mountain. “Wait and see how you feel at the top.” They were the same words someone spoke to me as a beginning hiker on one of my first trips across Knife Edge.

My friend didn’t feel any stronger at the summit of Pamola Peak, so we descended via the Helon Taylor Trail, but not before a long rest. We found a spot out of the wind and watched others crossing the Knife Edge. As we descended, the view we saw from Keep Ridge, looking towards Katahdin Lake, was expansive. The memory of the view is still crisp in detail. Enough so that I wonder what it would look like now, covered in white.

Some of the best times spent outdoors are enjoyed with friends. They make for the most complete memories. I was reminded of this while sending Christmas greetings to one, a good friend from Memphis, Tenn. He spends a week in Maine every summer with me and we hit the trail in between attending lobster festivals. This year he arrived in the first week of August. We only saw the sun twice in nine days of car camping, but it didn’t matter. We still hiked, and except for not being able to see the long views, the weather didn’t matter. We waited for the weather to clear, but when it didn’t we put on the rain suits and hiked anyway.

We made jokes about the clouds changing from one shade of gray to another. He wondered what month he should be here to avoid the crowds, the bugs or the rain. I didn’t really have a ready answer for that then. I still don’t. When viewed through the blurry conditions of that week it’s a wonder I can remember any of it.

That’s the way it is when you recall any time spent outdoors. Our memories of that time are selective. We remember those days or views or sightings that were most eventful. But when it seems that every discovery of a new locale, trail or vista that you encounter with friends is memorable, it’s a challenge to sort it all out.

Remembering summer may be what winter is for in Maine. After all, there are really only two seasons in our state. Summer and waiting for summer. Now, I know memories aren’t only made in summer, they’re created in winter, too. I’m out in the snow on shoes or skis. I’ll be tramping across the backcountry in search of winter views throughout this season. But, in the back of my mind are memories of seemingly endless days, warm temperatures and summer’s green colors.

Brad Viles lives in Ellsworth and spends as much time as he can on the trails of Maine.