The four of us looked upward. Would we? Could we? It was 1:45. Our guide had suggested 5:00 as an end to our hike. It was 5-6 miles (8-9 km) one way, we were told, with a bridge and a cascade somewhere between here and there. The gates were closed to all but worker vehicles.
We pictured the snowfield we had seen from the valley. Of course, in Montana, things are not as close as they appear to us Missouri greenhorns.
“Let’s try it. We can always turn back if we don’t have time to go all the way,” we decided. (Easier said than done!) “Crystal Lake, here we come!”
Eagerly we stepped out, leaving our guide with the older folks from our party.
Western pines stretched majestically skyward to our left. To our right, a clear mountain stream roared valley-ward through a ravine.
Across the gorge, bare, rocky cliffs rose. The sun shone. The roar of the creek gradually faded below us as we climbed.
“Down there is that rock we were even with awhile back,” someone pointed out.
“Yes,” we encouraged ourselves, “we must be climbing even though the smooth pavement seems only a slightly uphill grade.”
“I want to see a bear,” Benjamin said.
We saw four little birds instead, one red, three yellow. The red one resembled a Purple Finch, and they were all friendly little birds.
“What are they?” we wondered, as we examined them through binoculars.
“What about crossbills?” I suggested, though I had always imagined crossbills to be larger.
“Their beaks aren’t crossed.”
“Or are they?”
“Why, yes, they really are!” we all finally agreed. I happily added another lifer to my bird list.
The sun was warm. We drank Gatorade and looked for the bridge and the cascades. They would surely have to be around the next bend after all this climbing, we reasoned, as we rounded curve after curve. And, yes, finally after the correct amount of bend-watching, the sound of dashing water greeted our ears. Cheering, we splashed and waded in the refreshing sparkles and admired the little waterfalls.
Our spirits lifted as we started on. And on. And on. How far was this, really?
A wild whoop broke loose over the mountainside. “Snow!” We dived for the ditch, threw snowballs, washed our faces in the icy crystals, and stuffed snow into an empty Gatorade bottle to prove our find.
We began to meet descending hikers. “It’s a long ways,” one warned. We decided not to take him seriously.
“It’s worth it,” others encouraged.
“Only about a mile,” the man in the worker truck told us blithely as he paused in his cruise downwards.
Looking forward, it looked as though we weren’t climbing much. A glance backward, however, told us that the grade was steeper than we thought. Another western optical illusion.
“Only a mile?” we muttered as we trudged on. “Maybe if you’re driving around in a truck.”
Half of our time was coming up, but we were counting on going down faster than we had climbed up. Besides, we were much too close to turn around now. It must be on top of the next rise, or the next, or the next…
Then, there it was. A smooth green lake up in the mountains. Ah! to sit down and rest.
One foot in the icy waters dispelled all thoughts of weariness. We squealed and yelled, and the icy waters numbed our sore muscles.
All too soon it was time to start back down. Going down was different than climbing. We used different muscles. And our toes slid into the tips of our shoes with every step.
“Do you think it will rain?” I asked Benjamin, who loves to watch storms.
“I don’t know,” he admitted, looking at the wedge of sky showing between the towering horizons on either side.
As the first delicious, cooling drops of rain fell, we rounded the corner to see Edna standing like a statue, looking forward at something we couldn’t see.
With her hand, she motioned us forward cautiously. We crept forward. A mule deer!
Awestruck, we who were used to shy whitetails watched silently as the deer walked calmly about, close, so close!
The spell was broken, and we continued downward. We came to the bridge. The roar of the creek gradually became louder as it rose to meet us. The raindrops fell faster. However, the locals had told us that it rains fractions of an inch in Montana, so surely the shower would soon be past.
Benjamin motioned across the ravine, fascinated. “Look at how you can see the rain falling against the background of the cliff.”
Thunder pealed through the rocky crags. The mighty sound of thunder echoing through the mountains was thrilling.
We hurried on. Rain ran down our collars. Into our shoes. So much for Montana rain showers! We were getting soaked.
Ping! Ping! Something was changing. Ping! Ping-ping! Suddenly we were no longer just getting soaked. We were caught in a hailstorm with a sheer cliff on one side and a ravine on the other. No shelter. Anywhere.
We ran. Walked. Ran. Walked. Hail fell faster. We ran over a layer of crunchy hailstones. Thunder echoed and re-echoed. Hailstones hammered our arms, our heads.
We yelled to hear each other, squinted to see, and gasped to breathe through the icy deluge.
“It’s cold,” Edna cried, teeth chattering, as she ran barefoot over the hailstones.
“Put on your shoes; you’ve got to,” I screamed back.
“Take my hat,” Benjamin said, clamping his soggy hat on my head and getting out a bandana as a flimsy protection for his own. The hat felt very good, but I felt sorry for Benjamin, who now felt the impact of every sharp hailstone.
“Take my hat,” Allan yelled at Benjamin. “I’ll make a run for the van.” He took off running and disappeared from view.
At 5:15 we entered the waiting van with relief, shivering, soggy, and laughing.
Ruefully, I held up the Gatorade bottle of half-melted snow. It looked so insignificant.
For the next several days, our muscles creaked painfully, a constant reminder of an adventure that had turned out much bigger than we had bargained for. One we would not soon forget!
