In 1993, just before the 30th Anniversary of the horrific crash, Fred Worster of Greenville decides that “then was the time” to commemorate the lives lost and the lives saved, and those instrumental in that effort, and a humble ceremony was held to mark the event. Each year thereafter, the ceremony has gotten a little bigger and a little more formal, and a slowly-increasing number of people have attended. Mr. Worster passed away in 1998, and his wife, Priscilla – assisted by Pete and Callie Pratt, have continued the tradition. In 2001, the Maine Air National Guard State Honor Guard is invited to participate as the first official military Honor Guard to visit the site. In the contingent are five MAINEiacs: From the Wing, SMSgt Richard Johnson, TSgt Patrick Ford, and SSgt Joseph Smith; and from State Headquarters, Capt Richard Dawson and SMSgt Michael Gleason.

On Saturday, 21 January, the Moosehead Riders Snowmobile Club clubhouse is the gathering point. It's about 18ºf, with a beautiful blue sky and about a foot and a half of pure white snow. Outside the clubhouse sits one of the Stratofortress's eight J-57 engines – its titanium and other exotic-alloy components mangled and twisted. Near that engine is the first of two ceremonies to take place that day – this short ceremony for those who will not be travelling to the Elephant Mountain crash site. Immediately after that ceremony, the travelers “mount up” on an armada of snowmobiles, to strike through the wilderness on Maine's Intrastate (Snowmobile) Trail System (ITS) to Elephant Mountain, about 12 miles to the northeast.

It's eerie. Even after 38 harsh Maine Winters and 37 beautiful Maine Summers, the forces and devastation of the crash are immediately evident. Big “chunks” of “BUFF” lie everywhere, sticking up through the snow. Some are recognizable; many are not. It's said that, in the summer, one can't look anywhere on the ground and not plainly see pieces of plane. The group gathers around one of the largest pieces – a section of fuselage lying on its side, the Plexiglas remnants of its windows still evident and shards of nylon and other fabric from the crew area still blowing in the cold wind. American flags are everywhere, and on the trail-side of the section stands a tall slate marker, cryptically telling the story and naming those who lived and the many who didn't. The ceremony begins with a moment of silence – ominous except for the very distant drone of other snowmobiles. There are a few readings – one a poem written by the daughter of one of the two survivors while he was still in a hospital in Bangor – and then the placing of a rose for each crew member - red for those who died, and gold for the two survivors – as their ranks, names, ages, and homes of record are read. Standing there in the snow, just feet from the wreckage and in the knowledge of the lives lost right there, the sense of tragedy betrays its thirty-eight years. The ceremony ends with “PRESENT ARMS” and the strains of Taps mystically pervading the Maine woods. After several minutes of reflection, the group remounts and heads back to civilization with the resolve to never let the men be forgotten.

It's “over” for this year – but, as with the many whose lives were initially altered, we're all somehow “changed” for having been there. To quote Maj. Gen. Jay Benton, former Wing Commander, when speaking at a memorial service for those lost in a different incident in 1982, “...As we memorialize these people here today, let us not forget – no less in peacetime than in wartime – that they, too, 'died in service of their country'.”