At last the view of Hole-in-the-Wall, a staircase cirque excavated between the gigantic spread ribs of Mt. Custer. The slopes of beargrass are seed-spotted and gaunt now, the white fullness gone. Western pasqueflowers have accomplished their magic transformation; known in this season as old man’s beard, they nod their tufts of grizzled seedhead silk in the wind. Red and yellow monkeyflowers bloom yet, crowding along the many stream courses, and waterloving sedges and mosses surround pools of collected water on the broad horseshoe tiers. A spur trail drops down into the campground on the last ledge. Through a cleft in its lip plummets the gathered water of the basin. From the valley below, the waterfall appears to be springing from a hole in the headwall, giving this basin its name. Down, down, down, roars the water where once a mighty glacier ground its teeth. I leave until later the making of camp; by now the sharp shadows of Boulder Peak stab the valley forest and are beginning the upward assault of Thunderbird. Around the basin headwalls, last winter’s snowbanks remain formidable. Snow caves send out meltwater torrents. Glacier lilies and patches of spring beauty line their fringes. Pasqueflowers bloom in pockets. Here, among the asters of August, bloom also the first flowers of spring, shooting up as the snowbanks shrink, making these spots of snow-free ground a patchwork of May and July, August and June. The shrubs that line the furious water are willows, still bud-swollen this tenth day of September. The coming days will bring a sharp surprise. Winter will soon stop the melting of this snow. Could it be that I am seeing the first year of a reawakening ice age? If so, each year the snowfields would grow thicker and broader, connecting the shelves into one ice mass again, lilies and willows entombed, the summer heat failing to rescue them, until the ice at last began to slide, stripping the soil and once more plucking at living rock. Then these dwarfed fir, which cling precariously to the cliffs and hide behind the backs of boulders, would be in more danger than they were from their recent antagonists. Engulfed by ice, they would know the shearing wind no more. Their skeletons would rain down into the valley below, signalling another long forest retreat. But they have waited out the mountain ice before and would send their seeds again to this valley, changed however it might be, as they have always done. Evening brings out two sleek mule deer does. As they graze, their large ears stand erect, sorting out the lesser sounds from the ceaseless roar of water. Both raise their heads and point their ears, statue straight, at the scuttle of a porcupine. A noise among the rocks draws a backward glance and focus of those ears. I would like the sensitivity of such fine equipment, to hear what deer have always heard.