PELTIER CREEK--I abide with great regularity to winter's routine. The skies were still dark with just the slightest hint of morning color when the coffee pot began to emit those pleasant and tantalizing odors. The final, glowing remains of last night's log still smoldered in reds and grays, when a shaking of the ashes, followed by a handful of cedar kindling applied to the coals, soon brought a burst of flame.

There is satisfaction in watching an awakening wood-burning stove and hearing the crackling of the chimney as the flames begin to warm the stove. They cast welcome comfort while the perfume of hot iron, cedar burning and coffee perking replace the chill of night.

I was admiring my handiwork and sipping the first cup of coffee when the phone jarred the silence. It was the cheerful voice of the president of the Carteret Wildlife Club.

Gene Huntsman long ago developed a bad habit of getting up to feed horses long before the first rooster crows, somewhere around the same time that the owls are making their final forays for the night. And before long he had discovered that, upon wanting my services, it was best accomplished early, before I was sufficiently awake to dream up any excuses.

The voice came loud and full of cheer: "Hey, Bob! In case you've forgotten, this is trail day. Bring rope, hammers, block and tackle, sledgehammer, pry bar, rubber boots, come-alongs, bow saw and anything else you can think of to lift, move and repair a bridge."

Then, he said, "meet us off the ferry road and be there by nine."

The sun was just waking from its night's repose as I stumbled out to the shop to gather armloads of gear. Frost crunched underfoot, a thin skim of ice covered the rain barrel, small birds fluffed in the cold and flitted about while I was thinking of the excuses I could have used to avoid the forthcoming labors.

It was cold, below the freezing mark, as I pulled into the rendezvous point, just south of the Minnesott Ferry. From there we'd take an access road to another, now made impassible by deep mud holes and ruts where some folks with big wheels like to take turns getting stuck and tearing up the road.

A quick count revealed about 15 of us who had been routed from warm beds, volunteering to freeze and sweat on repairs to the Neusiok hiking trail.

For those unfamiliar with its location, the trail extends from the Neuse River, winding for some 22-odd miles through deep forest, swamps, ridge lands and pocosins to terminate on the Newport River. The trail was conceived by the Carteret Wildlife Club some 30 years ago and over the years carved by sweat, blister and strained muscles entirely by hand, creating the only such public hiking trail along Carolinas coastal plain, now all on public land.

Our job was to repair some of the bridges the club had erected to ease less-hazardous crossing of stream and boglands. Flooding by Hurricane Isabel had damaged several sections, buckling, pulling up foundation pilings and such.

Heavily laden with gear, we struck out. It didn't take many miles of hiking to remind me that I was not in the physical condition I used to be. Too much easy living and TV time. Even so, hiking Carolina's winter woods is to see the forest at its friendliest. Cool but sheltered from all but the most severe winds, it's well-marked and snake- and insect-free and offers open vistas of wilderness.

The first bridge had been lifted, twisted and laid on edge. It required extensive engineering. There was compensation, though. One section of our crew was assigned to finding a clear spot, providing a warming fire and unloading such delicacies as hot dogs, beans, drinks and desserts.

There was little time for sightseeing. However, while working on the final bridge, some of our crew noted a red scum covering a nearby beaver pond.

Examination revealed a tiny fernlike plant with maroon-red leaves accompanied by minute black markings. The entire plant and leaf, somewhat reminiscent of the shape of a four-leafed clover, was only about the size of a match head.

Not far away were the remains of an ancient still that had been blown up sometime in the past. When we first cut the trail through this area, there were nearby, tucked securely in the side of a bank, several dozen two-quart Mason jars still waiting to be filled.

It will take several days for my aching muscles to recover. Meanwhile, I have taken a solemn vow never again to answer the telephone before nine in the morning lest it be the wildlife club president again looking for volunteers.