A few years ago, while volunteering as winter caretaker at a snowbound, nearly mile-high hut in New Hampshire’s White Mountains, I spent three days alone, trying to stay warm while stamping in a circle around a wood stove I was instructed not to light unless other climbers wandered in for the night.

Twice each day, at dawn and dusk, I had to tramp out in howling winds, through deep drifts and over icy trails to check on two other shelters, spread a mile apart on remote ridges.

My responsibilities included collecting fees, providing trail information and making sure careless guests didn’t accidently set the buildings on fire.

The only problem: Nobody showed up.

And so I spent a good part of my time hiking solo, exulting in the spectacular but forbidding, frozen terrain. I tread carefully in crampons and snowshoes, aware that if I slipped and sprained an ankle or worse, it could be quite awhile before anybody came to my rescue.

Finally, on the fourth day of my weeklong stint, a group of hikers arrived, and I welcomed them like Robinson Crusoe greeting Friday (except we weren’t on a tropical island, and I wasn’t really stranded — I could have hiked a few miles back down to civilization any time.)

I thought of that largely solitary experience one windy day last week when I paddled my kayak alone on Rangeley Lake in Maine, a favorite family vacation destination.

During the height of the summer season, canoes, sailboats, fishing boats and other kayaks ply the lake. After Labor Day, though, only the hardcore venture out.

This could be good or bad. On one hand, I wouldn’t have to worry about boat wakes or speeding Jet Skis, but going solo also meant I would have to pay closer attention to water and wind conditions.

I would be paddling mostly downwind about five miles to a tiny village so I could check my email at the library. This route would take me across Hunter Cove, a broad inlet from which swirling gusts often kicked up choppy waves. If I wanted to shorten the distance between points of land, I also would have to venture about a quarter-mile offshore.

These would not be daring, overly risky maneuvers; I’d made this voyage many times in more challenging conditions. Still, on my own, I found myself gripping the paddle more tightly.

Ahead I could see whitecaps at the mouth of Hunter Cove, but they proved to be just a short stretch of bumpy water. No worries. A few splashes over the coaming, and then a nice, steady northwest breeze propelled me the rest of the way to town.

It turned out to be a glorious afternoon on the water. The surface sparkled in bright sunlight while puffy clouds scudded over the summits of Saddleback Mountain and other 4,000-foot peaks some 10 miles to the east.

This time of year, the sun’s angle begins to dip closer to the horizon, sharpening everything in view. I noticed a few maples had begun to turn crimson.

I passed within a few yards of three loons, and also gazed at a bald eagle soaring over dense evergreens lining the north shore. These birds soon would be winging their way south.

As I approached City Cove — a misnomer that suggests a bustling port rather than a sleepy hamlet — I heard the drone of a seaplane.

Instinctively, I ducked. These aircraft occasionally take off and land in the cove, and only a few weeks ago, one failed to gain elevation and plunged into the water not far from some canoes and kayaks. A cellphone video of the splashdown, recorded by one of the paddlers, was broadcast on national television that night. Luckily, neither the pilot, his passenger, nor any of the boaters was injured.

No such drama last week: As I entered the cove, the seaplane passed safely overhead, and minutes later, I beached at the town park.

Watch out for wasps

Loyal readers know I spend as much time as I can in the great outdoors in all seasons, and only a few exigencies will drive me indoors.

Number one is lightning. First rumble of thunder sends me dashing for shelter.

Number two — way ahead of blizzards, downpours, hailstorms and other meteorological menaces — are wasps, which have been busy reproducing all summer and are now at their peak populations.

One day last week, I was loading logs into a cart and stirred up a nest. I wound up with nearly a dozen stings, including one on my face that felt like a hypodermic needle filled with hydrochloric acid.

You’d think I would have learned my lesson, but no. A few days later, while ripping up weeds, I disturbed another nest: Another round of stings, including one on my lip.

In seconds, it looked like Floyd Mayweather had landed a right hook.

So now when strolling through the woods or out to the garden, I tiptoe even more carefully than I did during that solo mountain caretaking adventure.

Watch your step, everybody. From now until first frost, danger lurks on the ground, in bushes, and anywhere else wasps are likely to hide. They do not tolerate interlopers and are not shy about expressing their hostility.

I think for the time being I’ll hold off on firewood gathering and weeding.