I’ve made this trip so many times I could do it in my sleep. It always starts out the same way. I’ll take the early flight from the Portland International Jetport with a brief stop and plane change at LaGuardia.

Then, barring any unforeseen flight delays, I can expect to be touching down on the sun-baked tarmac of the airport in Fort Myers, Florida, a few minutes before noon.

Somehow, despite having made the exact same trek on any number of occasions, this particular journey has me feeling all tingly with anticipation. I honestly can’t recall ever feeling quite this happy to be leaving Maine.

There is of course an excellent one-word explanation for my newfound euphoria — winter! And not just any winter, mind you.

You know how Mainers of a certain vintage (mine) love to regale the assembled multitudes with horrific tales of those epic winters of our youth? Sure you do. Pretty darned irritating, huh?

Well, for those of you who’ve been forced to endure these grueling, frostbitten forced marches down Memory Lane, I have good news. After this winter, there’s a good chance you’ll never have to hear those tales again.

The facts are in, kids. And numbers don’t lie. Statistical evidence, compiled by legions of geeks who selflessly dedicate their lives to such matters, simply confirms what any Mainer with a snow shovel and an aching back has already figured out by now.

The last time we had a winter this bad in the state of Maine was — wait for it — never!

That’s right. So far (at this writing spring is still several long weeks away) more snow has fallen in fewer hours than in any other winter since they started keeping records back in the 19th century!

Toss in an ice storm or two and what have you got? The worst winter ever! Are you listening, Grandpa?

Fun facts: The city of Boston was recently buried under six feet of fresh snow, all of which fell in a single, 30-day period, nearly paralyzing the city’s transportation system.

Although no such urban transit snarl-ups were reported when back-to-back blizzards pummeled Down East, Maine recently, I’m sure the good citizens of Eastport weren’t particularly thrilled to be digging themselves out from under their own 72-inch avalanche. Unlike Boston, Eastport’s record snowfall, all six feet of it, came in one 10-day stretch!

No wonder I’m so happy to be in Florida right now. And, apparently, those sunshine endorphins are really kicking in. From the moment I arrived, I’ve had the strangest sensation. It’s as if time itself had come unhinged — somehow weirdly compressed.

I mean, just seconds ago I was wandering through the terminal. Now, as if by magic, I’m speeding along in a brand new convertible.

And whoa! What’s this? There must be some mistake. This is no stripped, base model rent-a-car Mustang. It may sound crazy. But I appear to be cruising toward the beach in a sky blue $350,000 Bentley Azure. That’s totally weird! I may as well continue motoring along the palm-lined streets and see what happens next.

OK, this is beginning to feel genuinely spooky. Approaching the toll plaza for the Sanibel Island bridge, I realize that despite the sea breeze blowing through my open-topped chariot, it’s getting increasingly stuffy in here.

I reach across the yawning expanse of sun-dappled cowhide and burled walnut and crank the big car’s air conditioning up to full blast. Hmm, nothing is happening! It just keeps getting warmer and warmer.

Now my heart is really racing. Panic sets in. Pulling into the toll booth, I discover that the seatbelt has wrapped itself around me like some evil python on the lam from the Miami Zoo.

Powerless, unable to raise my arms, I gasp in the oppressive heat as the ancient, grinning toll booth operator slowly reaches over and presses a gigantic bright red “panic button,” unleashing a cacophony of screaming alarm bells!

I awaken in a sea of perspiration, struggling in vain to reach the alarm clock jangling on my bedside table. Glancing down, I can see that my entire body is wrapped up tighter than King Tut in the broiling shroud of my electric blanket.

By the time my heart rate drops to something resembling normal range, I’m sitting at my kitchen watching two feet of new snow pile up outside. In my right hand, a steaming cup of coffee, in my left a Florida airline ticket showing a departure date exactly one month from today.

So, apparently that thing I said earlier turns out to be true after all. I really have made this trip so many times that I can do it in my sleep.