The woman looked exhilarated but concerned as she met us coming down the Swiftcurrent Pass trail. “You’d best be careful heading up to the pass. There’s supposed to be a big thunderstorm today. An L4.” That term puzzled me until the middle-aged hiker clarified that the “L” rankings indicated the severity of storms. My companion Kitty explained that they had L5 events back in her native Florida, when the air felt utterly alive with charged particles and the ground would shake continuously as thick thunderbolts slammed into the earth.
The weather could only generate up to L4 conditions here in these Montana mountains, the woman explained, but an L4 was bad enough. I thanked the lady and turned to Kit, asking if she were game to continue. I was used to risking my own neck on these adventures, not that of others. Kit glanced up at the dark clouds spilling over the high ridges above us, shrugged and said she was still inclined to carry on.
I admired Kit’s enthusiasm, even as I feared somewhat for our safety. Experience told me that a storm was inevitable, but there was a chance we could reach Swiftcurrent Pass and experience the grand western scenery before the tempest struck us too badly. To my shame, my own deep-seated compulsion to climb higher warred with my conscience and ultimately succeeded in keeping me silent. I bit my lip, swallowed any foreboding comments I might make and followed Kit up the trail that had been blasted into the rock of the mountainside.
The two of us were exploring the ice-sculpted interior of Glacier National Park, home of grizzlies, mountain goats and mosquitoes aplenty. An exceptionally cold spring season had kept the high country cloaked in white far later than usual. These mountains should have kicked off their winter blanket long ago, but only now were they shaking free from their slumbers, groggily returning to a state of vibrancy and vigor. A few more years of this weather, and the steadily-disappearing glaciers might begin to advance down the valleys once again. Not likely, given the trajectory of current climate trends, but one can hope.
The trail wound up the side of a steep glacial cirque, and although the clouds teasing the mountaintops hinted of dark intentions, I observed that the lakes we had traveled alongside, hundreds of feet below us, were still sunlit and placid. It was easy to get complacent, looking downwards toward the summery scene, but I sensed our time in the sunshine was soon to end.
We reached a spot where the trail was still covered by a steep snowfield. Sure enough, as other hikers had promised, there was a path kicked across it. Once safely on the other side, we bestirred a noble-looking buck, antlers still covered in velvet and likely to grow to an impressive size. The creature kept roaming ahead of us, trotting across snow-covered meadows and heading towards our mutual destination: Swiftcurrent Pass.
Now the blue skies were at our backs, and to attain the mountain ridge we had to step into the shadow of the storm. It hung ominously above our heads like the blade of a guillotine. A rumble of thunder, a splashing of raindrops, and then the buck disappeared past the pile of stones marking the top of the pass, giving one last look back at the foolish humans before he trotted off to find shelter on the farther side.
I had hoped to find a far-reaching vista, rich with the trappings of Rocky Mountain magnificence. Instead, it appeared that the storm had claimed all the country west of the pass, leaving little to see but broken foothills and shrouded skies. The tempest finally made its intentions known, hurtling a gale-force wind across the sparse meadow. I herded us quickly into a stand of stunted trees and urged Kitty to don all her warm layers, as well as my own pair of rainpants. Perhaps gallantry could make up for my complicity in this afternoon’s poor decisions.
The rainfall began to feel like a physical attack, and to hasten our descent, I led us off-trail and onto the upper reaches of the snowfield we had crossed earlier. I recognized that we had to shift to survival mode, as hypothermia would soon be threatening our very lives. If the storm did not abate, then we needed to get down to a lower and warmer elevation fast.
The snowfield was a valuable shortcut, and we made good time until the incline grew steeper. The worst section was directly above where we had crossed the snow the first time. To be honest, the sharp gradient of the hillside meant nothing to me; I’d had plenty of experience on this type of terrain. But Kit had never negotiated a slope like this without skis attached to her boots. She feared she might lose control, sliding past the buried trail and dropping off the cliff at the base of the snowfield.
Like a newborn deer testing her legs, Kit walked shakily across the snow, angling towards the point where we might regain the trail. Instinctually, she leaned with one hand into the hillside, even though it weakened her stability. Keeping her weight centered above her legs would have helped gravity anchor her feet to the mountain, but her movements were too unsure. I positioned myself downhill from Kit, and twice I had to check her slide when her feet slipped out from underneath her.
The rain was not letting up, and in the back of my mind, I recognized that my rain-soaked shorts were facilitating a rapid decrease in my body temperature. I should have brought warmer layers along, but I had made poor decisions back at the trailhead all of my own. Still, there was no rushing our progress. I worried about Kit’s struggles in the face of this cruel storm and wondered, Was this a relationship-breaker? My addiction to altitude had helped get us into this mess … Had it irrevocably shattered her trust in me?
We reached the trail and began making better time, though the clouds vindictively threw bullets of hail against us, stinging my exposed calves and eliciting yelps of surprise from my companion. The rain began to ease up, and we took a moment to breathe beneath the shelter of an overhanging cliff - the place where we’d been warned of the impending L4 storm. I was afraid to take the measure of Kit’s morale, knowing the ordeals we’d faced since escaping from Swiftcurrent Pass. But when she pulled back her hood, I saw a glint in her eye that bespoke of pride in a challenge overcome. I shivered in my rain-drenched shorts and felt relieved and grateful for her resilience.
Some hours later, we were sipping spoonfuls of hot soup in a cozy gift shop lobby, warming our tired bodies and listening to the native songwriter Jack Gladstone sing stories of Blackfeet lore and legends. Jack paused to comment on the torrential downpour that was happening outside the lobby windows - a rainstorm twice as fierce as what we had encountered atop the pass. Looks like an L5 to me, I thought smugly, and dipped my spoon into the bowl.

Bryan is a 1991 Norwich High School graduate and works as a naturalist at the Rancho Alegre Outdoor School in Santa Barbara, CA. You may reach him mid-journey at foolsby@hotmail.com.