Mainers, I've noticed, are very serious about about their Patriots.

Dump a couple feet of snow on a Mainer's driveway, bury his car and can the electricity for three days and he's probably not all that fazed. "Welcome to Maine," he'll chuckle while he digs a path to his front door.

But take that same gentleman and shove him into a seat at Gillette Stadium and his mellow tone will be overcome by an uncontrollable Patriots enthusiasm.

So when a friend suggested we catch a game this season, I was all for it. I wanted to see those fans in action.

And sure, when we bought tickets to the Dec 21st game against Arizona I figured it'd be cold. But really, how bad could it be?

Out tickets were booked through Our Tickets and Tours. The trip included a bus ride down to Gillette, a few hours of hearty tailgating, the game and a welcome ride back.

What we hadn't accounted for was the pounding of snow - oh, and the wind. There was a lot of wind. But they didn't charge us for that.

We met the bus in the Maine Mall parking lot at 5:45 a.m., most of us still half asleep. The sky was gray then, but quiet.

About an hour into the drive, the flakes started falling. When we stopped at a rest area, a good 2-3 inches had collected. (The tour typically stops at the NH Liquor Store, but seeing as we left South Portland at dawn, the liquor store wasn't open when we drove by.)



By the time the bus came to a halt in the Foxborough parking lot, the storm was fully upon us. But that didn't hinder the festivities. The grill was lit, the burgers cooked and the beers cracked open (you know, for those of us who opted not to start drinking at 6:00 a.m.).

I was decked out in snow gear, having decided that looking like the Michelin Man's misbegotten cousin was better than freezing my arse off.

It was a decision I'd live to appreciate, as all the folks meandering the parking lot in jeans and sweatshirts began falling victim to blizzarditis.



The march to the stadium was slushed. It was hard to look up to see where you were walking, seeing as the wind made a game of throwing ice pellets into your eyes if you looked up from the ground.

But our feet were still dry and we were charged for the game.

Course, had it not been for the football field just beyond the stands ahead of us, I would have insisted that this mass of bundled, snow-pants-wearing people were preparing to climb Everest.

We made it to our seats with some trepidation - the already steep cement staircase was packed with snow. Someone was going to take a nosedive before the game was over. I just hoped it wouldn't be me.



Despite the storm, there was still a good crowd, even in the nosebleed section we were in. And while it stunk to be so far from the field, our distant seats turned out to be a blessing when fans started chucking snowballs.

They were little ones at first, in celebration of a good play. But as the first quarter slipped into the second, and as two beers slipped into four, the snowballs grew.

I saw more than one basketball-sized ball of snow go plummeting onto the fans below. I also saw more than one thrower get tossed from the stadium.

At halftime my group huddled on the concourse. The Patriots were trampling Arizona and the snow was trampling us. Gloves were a moot point by now and Mark and Annmarie had snow in their pants. We considered ducking into one of the bars in the new Patriot Place, but decided heading back to the bus was a better cheaper decision.

We were, so sadly, the first to ditch the game. But the bus was warm and the grill was still producing burgers and BBQ pork, so I'm not ashamed of wimping out. (It was also my first time eating a Red Hot Dog. Decent dog, but the snapping scares me.)

The remaining bus goers trickled back eventually, each looking more thoroughly frozen than the last. And each still in good spirits despite not being able to feel their legs.



And as it turned out, there was a staircase casualty.

This fellow slipped on the snow-packed steps and fell down 16 stairs. He broke two fingers and a tooth, split his lip and royally sliced up his face. But I swear, he was still the most cheery guy on the bus ride home.

"I just went a$$ over teakettle. But I'm good. I mean, I'll have to get my fingers fixed and my tooth capped and maybe some surgery on my nose. But once my lip stops bleeding I'll be just fine."

Optimism as its best. Of course the beer might've helped.

The bus ride back to Maine was about five hours of risky roads. That bus driver deserves a medal.

He delivered us safely to the Maine Mall parking lot, where we discovered the mall had decided not to do any plowing.



Our cars were buried.

But once again Maine altruism came to the rescue (aside from the handful of folks in SUVs and trucks who started up their vehicles and quickly sped out of there) and we all spent the next 45 minutes helping each other dig out.

My car was the last to go (since there were three of us, we figured we could push ourselves out if needed). But even after their cars were free from the snow and onto drivable roads, a handful of people walked back to help us out.

That's Maine for you.



And after all the snow and the cold and the digging (at the mall and once again when my car got stuck in Portland) we each agreed it was a memorable adventure. I suppose you don't really know what kind of neighbors you have until you get stranded in a mall parking lot.

And in Portland, we have some pretty damn good neighbors.

Oh, and did I mention the Patriots won?

[Our Tickets and Tours manages trips to Patriots, Red Sox, Celtics and Bruins games. They're extremely well managed and heck, there are even on-bus raffles for your gambling pleasure.]