A Mountain of Perspective

It was a deep, pervasive cold—one that came on gradually and sank all the way into your bones. We were shivering uncontrollably. My husband, Tim, and I huddled together in one sleeping bag, just trying to stave off the cold. The ground underneath our campsite was wet with melted snow. Though it was already June, piles of snow from last winter surrounded our tent on all sides. I had noticed a small patch of snow midway through our hike the day before. We were three days into a backpacking trip into Rocky Mountain National Park’s Wild Basin. That small patch of snow didn’t raise too much alarm at the time. However, as we drew closer to our campground, the added elevation yielded more and more patches of snow. Closer and closer together they became until suddenly we were climbing over honest-to-goodness drifts.

Following the footprints of those who came before us (admittedly few), we were able to mostly keep our feet dry. The air temperature was comfortably in the 50s, and under our current level of exertion, we felt the welcome warmth of the shining sun filtering through the pines to the snowy ground. Here and there, bits of moss would peek out, and the sun would smile on it as if welcoming it into summer. Despite feeling comfortable in the moment, I began to wonder about the state of our campsite and how hard it would be to pitch our small, two-man tent under the circumstances.

A few hours later and a couple thousand feet of elevation gain, we found ourselves at 10,570 feet. The path leveled out and opened into a beautiful meadow surrounding Thunder Lake. The view was spectacular, with the mountains and sky reflecting perfectly into the crisp, cold waters, and for a moment I forgot all about the logistics of getting to and setting up camp for the night. It was only three in the afternoon; we had a bit of time to explore. But looking at the sky, we realized there was a storm looming. We rushed to pitch our tent and get the rain fly set up.

Once we finished setting up, we donned our rain ponchos, and headed down to the lake to take in the sights. Halfway there, the storm broke, sending marble-sized hail in sheets down on us. Luckily, there was a small ranger’s cabin ahead. Reaching the door, we found it locked and deserted. But there was a slight overhang on the cabin’s front porch, and there we huddled, screaming and laughing as the hail came down. Then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, it was gone. We ran out from our shelter through a field of wildflowers, and the sun kissed our faces as we changed out of our rain gear.

That night, however, after dinner, the bone-chilling cold could not be escaped. No fires allowed in the park meant that we had no heat source to warm ourselves except for a small propane stove that fit in the palm of my hand. We could boil water and fill our water bottles, but if one of them opened or leaked and we soaked ourselves in the middle of the night, our discomfort could turn dire. So we huddled and waited, minute by minute, for dawn to arrive and rescue us.

To this day, that may have been the longest night of my life. I think about it sometimes now that I am home and relish the convenience of a warm bed or a freshly drawn bubble bath. It definitely gives these creature comforts more meaning after spending a cold night out in the wilderness. Up until that night, I had never experienced cold in that way. I’m not one to subject myself to cold showers or ice baths, though I did swim in the icy waters of Princess Louisa Inlet when I was a kid—a story for another day. But in that situation, I was able to get out, towel off, and warm up any time I liked. Losing that control at Thunder Lake felt like losing my sanity. But it gave me a little bit of resilience I didn’t know I had and a mountain of perspective for when I came home.