I sat beneath a pine tree seeking refuge from the rain as it poured down in gray drizzle,

just as it had been all morning. My two older sons hunkered under the same tree, but everything was wet, despite our best efforts. We'd spent the last hour climbing up through the morning dark of a steep avalanche shoot

as the brisk alpine air turned to dreary daylight.

Almost a tree line in the Rocky Mountains, early fall, nearly broaching 12,000 feet in the rarefied air where even trees cannot survive.

Longs burned quicker as high up, alone without cell service, breathing in the solos of this

wild place.

Raincoats notwithstanding, the steady sheets of precipitation, find a way to drench every

garment and piece of gear with a special kind of bone-chilling misery.

On the harsh mountain, warmth is your friend.

Wet is your foe.

Wool glomets, part glove, part mitten.

From the Army surplus store hang heavy on the hands, still insulating, but in the most

unpleasant way possible. Backpacks doused. The raincoats are serviceable at keeping moisture out but cause another problem.

They don't breathe and so the sweat soaks you from within, especially after a strenuous

early morning ascent on the mountain.

It's muzzle-loader elk season, which means no effort is spared in the constant war,

sometimes successful, sometimes not, to keep the barrel taped and your black horn powder dry.

Spirits lagging under our lonely pine.

We contemplate the likely futility of another rigorous jaunt into the backcountry.

The heater in the truck beckons. The thought of biscuits in the pan,

spark a grumble from the belly, warm coffee and the thermus calls our name.

But we came all this way.

...