Winter does not blow in from the north; it descends from above. It parachutes down from the clouds and establishes snowy footholds in the high country during autumn rainstorms. At first, winter claims dominion over territory that no one desires. People gaze up from the valleys and admire the stark beauty of the glittering, dusted peaks. But with every storm, winter extends its realm lower and lower, until it becomes an unstoppable force, rushing down and burying the valleys and plains beneath a suffocating shroud of snow.

Although the beginning of autumn was still technically four days away, winter had already sunk its icy talons into Montana’s Pioneer Range. I had waited three days since the last stormfront passed through the region, hoping the snow would melt from the tips of the mountains. But after hiking up to South Gorge Lake at 9,000 feet, I realized that had been wishful thinking. Patches of wet snow ringed the shoreline. Chickadees flitted nervously between snags of whitebark pine, as anxious about the intrusive presence of winter as I was. A cold, fierce wind came down from Tweedy Mountain and surged across the lake, roaring its displeasure. Winter was not yet strong enough to bar me from this elevation, but it seemed determined to discourage me from climbing higher. And yet that was my precise intention.