Room with Bath

This post is contributed by Barnaby Porter from his archives. Read the previous post here.

I recall it was sometime in late January, dead of winter, at a time when I thrived on impulse, little sleep and no common sense. I was a skier. Skiing was what I did, and in pursuit of that end and by the power of suggestion, I found myself heading off for a weekend of no-nonsense thrill-seeking on the steep, blustery, sub-zero trails on Wildcat Mountain, which shivered under the glare of the icy, windswept mantle of Mount Washington. I knew it was going to be cold, but just not HOW cold.

I was driving my parents’ Ford station wagon. Beside me on the seat sagged one of my old blue socks with about thirty silver dollars in it – a hefty little stake and all I had. By my figuring, it was nearly enough for two half-day tickets, one night’s lodging and a few gallons of gas to get the station wagon home on “empty.” I was prepared to rough it if I had to, so there was also on the seat beside me a big box of crackers. That was to be all of my food. I figured I could drink water, and that ought to be free. It was a low-budget trip.

When I got out of the car by the lodge at the bottom of Wildcat Mountain, instantly my nose and ears felt as though they were being sliced off by frozen shards of glass. By the time I approach the ticket booth I had become thoroughly convinced that the thermometer was correctly reading “40º below.” There wasn’t much of a line. So, I quickly stepped into the gondola lift, more like a frozen metal egg, and it carried me up into the tree tops and beyond, and I watched as all hints of warmth and comfort disappeared from view. At the top, the view of Mount Washington (famous as “Home of the World’s Worst Weather”) was spectacular, but I was more impressed by the air and the wind as it shrieked through every stitch of clothing I had on with a chill factor that must have been a 140º below zero.

I soon found myself regretting ever having heard of the state-of-the-art “long-thong” bindings I had on my skis, which took ten bare-handed minutes to put on under the circumstances, and by the time I had done so, my ice-glazed eyeballs had barely the acuity to focus on the trail map nailed to a very scraggly and extremely dormant spruce tree, let alone to ascertain which trail would get me the hell down off that mountain the fastest.

But something akin to God took momentary notice of my plight, and a flash of extreme good luck shot me straight down a precipitous flume of glare ice. I didn’t mean to do it. No witnesses were about. Yet somehow, I managed to ski the fastest run ever executed on planet Earth, without crashing, without even dying. It was one of those World Records that no one ever knows about, including the guy doing it.

Once I was at the door of the lodge at the bottom, I was mightily inclined not to bother undoing those ridiculous long-thongs on my skis at all, but to just ski right on inside. It seemed like a reasonable plan, but a second thought left me no alternative but to set another world record on the heels of the first – the fastest ski binding removal ever, using nothing but my knife.

Whew! I can feel the needles of ice in my blood just thinking about it. Needless to say, that one trip down the mountain gave me more than my money’s worth. After a couple of hours by the fire to recover from one more day at my favorite sport, I headed off down the road, munching crackers, looking for a sign I had seen that advertised “Rooms with Bath.”

I thought my day had been fairly thrilling, but once I found the place, my Room with Bath became another story in itself.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

After a bone-chilling day skiing on Wildcat Mountain with the thermometer reading an honest 40° below zero, I found myself in dire need of a warm place to stay for the night, a bed with warm blankets, and better still, a hot bath. So, when I saw the sign that said, “Room with Bath,” I felt that it had been put there just for me.

I pulled into the place. It didn’t look very fancy, but then I was on a low budget trip. I hefted my old sock full of silver dollars, my life’s savings, and noticed it wasn’t as heavy as when I had started out on this escapade. “$8 per night,” read another sign by the front door. I figured I could just manage it if I stuck to my crackers and water diet. I grabbed my bag of essentials and hurried for the warm innards of this lodging house by the side of the road.

The man at the desk looked me up and down as though he had seen my type before. He didn’t say anything much – just gave me the key for my room and handed me some clean sheets, a towel and a little bar of soap.

The room wasn’t too extravagant. It was small and contained nothing more than a bed, a chair and a mirror on the wall. The bath was across the hall. Feeling sort of at a loss for something to do, and with no entertainment besides the mirror, I made up the bed and then laid down on it, eating crackers and staring at the ceiling. I sure knew how to have a good time back in those days.

Pretty soon I began to gag on all the crackers. My thoughts quickly turned to water and where I might find some, which process quite naturally led me in the direction of the bath directly opposite the door to my room. Since I had planned to take a nice hot bath anyhow, I made ready for that mission and slipped across the hall with my towel arranged as a loincloth and with my little bar of soap.

It was a delightful bath I took, hot and soothing, and by the time I was through, the bathroom was thoroughly steamed up. I lingered awhile but at last darted back across the hall to my spartan accommodations. To my great surprise, I couldn’t open the door. It was locked, and the key was inside. And I was on the outside, stark naked save for my soggy towel. Hmmm!

“What now?” I thought. There wasn’t much point in going back into the bath. I decided to look for help. I crept down the hallway and peeked into the lobby where I could hear voices. Just as I was about to call out for help, modesty got the best of me. I panicked and ran. Where to? What a stupid fix!

Then I noticed an open door. (A person in my condition notices everything!) It must have been the manager’s room, because inside was a desk and over it, a big board with room keys (!) hanging from little hooks. I knocked. No answer. Should I chance it? Yes, I should, I determined.

I snuck in… jaybird fashion… and I knew it didn’t look good. There was a lot of money lying on the bed, cases of food stacked up, and before me, the keys to every room in the place. I desperately needed one of those keys, and I planned to steal it. It didn’t look good at all. But I did it! And I ran like hell and my towel fell off and I didn’t care.

Thank heaven, the key worked. I burst into my room and collapsed on the bed. What an adventure, and all the sign had said was “Room with Bath.”

Next morning, I checked out with a sheepish expression on my face, and again the man at the desk, the man whose room I had snuck into, gave me that look as though he had seen my type before.

Artist and author Barnaby Porter has had a varied career in marine research, aquaculture, and woodworking, among others. Most recently he partnered with his wife Susan as co-owners of the Maine Coast Book Shop & Cafe in downtown Damariscotta. In October 2021, Barnaby completed his tenure on Coastal Rivers’ Board of Trustees after six years of service.