After shoveling a path to the woodshed the other day for the 138th time this season (or so it seemed) and lugging what certainly felt like the 862nd load of logs to the house and the 243rd bucket of wood stove ashes to the distant pit, and also chipping away for hours at a thick, obsidian-like layer of ice coating the stone steps, as well as spreading yet another 50-pound bag of sand along the driveway, not to mention climbing onto the roof to sweep snow off the flat section and to jab away at caked-up creosote from chimney cap louvers that kept the stove from drawing properly, I almost found myself longing for spring.

I say almost because despite all these wretched chores related to this winter’s record-shattering, bone-chilling weather, I still have been enjoying snowshoeing and cross-country skiing right from my door, as well as venturing out onto the frozen lake, where swirling clouds of wind-whipped snow have transformed southeastern Connecticut to Antarctica. Those magical experiences more than make up for having to survive for months in a virtual frozen logging camp.

The other morning, though, I found myself exclaiming, “I’ve had it!” after the kitchen sink drain pipe froze during a sub-zero night because I carelessly forgot to keep the faucet dripping. In my defense I had taken pains to keep a thin stream of water flowing from the bathroom tap as well as from the shower head, but after washing the dinner dishes I absent-mindedly shut the kitchen faucet, allowing water that collected in the drainpipe below the house to turn to ice.

Admittedly, having a frozen drain pipe was not as disastrous as having a frozen pipe from the well, but it still presented a huge nuisance — especially since I was expecting a couple dozen friends from a running club in a few days for a group workout and didn’t want to ask guests to confine their drinking source to the bathroom sink, nor did I want to have to go without a kitchen sink until the spring thaw.

The only solution was to slither under the house — which has no basement, only a dirt crawl space about 3 feet high —lay on my back and aim a hair dryer at the pipe. This maneuver first required digging a path through nearly 6 feet of snow that I had shoveled from the roof.

After an hour or so of excavation and wriggling like a commando while dragging an extension cord and the dryer, I discovered I had cleverly placed heat tape years ago on all the other pipes, keeping them from freezing, but inexplicably had neglected this one section. When you only have yourself to blame you tend to be forgiving, but I nonetheless cursed my old self. What had I been thinking?

Finally I got to work.

After only about two minutes, though, the hair dryer shut off. What the ...?

“Lisa!” I shouted to my wife through the floorboards. The blankety-blank hair dryer crapped out!”

“Try hitting the reset button!” she yelled back.

“I did. ... Nothing.”

“Try unplugging it and plugging it back in!”

“I did that. Still nothing!”

“Try hitting the reset button again!”

This prompted a largely unproductive exchange of comments, probably best left unreported.

Finally, Lisa came up with a solution: A portable electric heater. (By the way, I know enough not to try using a propane torch near the wooden joists.) She lowered it to me, plugged it in, and voila! – warm air blasted forth.

I propped the wonderful gadget up on boxes, aimed it at the pipe, and wriggled from my subterranean chamber covered in cobwebs, dirt and snow.

“If this doesn’t work I’m giving up,” I announced.

Half an hour later the sink gurgled and Lisa blurted, “It drained!”

So now, as the temperature threatens to plunge yet again below zero with no letup in sight, all the faucets are dripping 24/7.

But the house is nice and toasty with both stoves going full blast, and my pals are due shortly. I’ll take these conditions over late-summer’s heat and humidity any day.