Setting about the business of camp, I wonder about those animals that watched me for a while, then moved off, having seen a tent go up before. With the appearance of the moon the wind increases and they test the air more often now. Do they have visions of cougar or grizzly with every snap the wind delivers? In summer these high meadows see a surprising variety of animal life. Briefly out of hibernation are marmots and the handsome golden-mantled ground squirrels. Mice, voles, shrews, and woodrats run among the shadows, feeding on the season’s feast of seeds and insects. A nightmare for these are the fierce little weasels that haunt the rocks. Tracks of cougar and wolverine are sometimes seen, often teasingly fresh; to glimpse either of these elusive predators is to taste the finest wine of wilderness. Before the berry season, grizzlies grub the meadows for the tasty bulbs of glacier lilies and the tubers of spring beauty; often distracted by the scent of a ground squirrel in its burrow, they sometimes make a huge excavation for a small reward. White-crowned sparrows sing in July from the low tops of the battered trees, though their nests are on the ground below. Grey-crowned rosy finches patrol the drier ground for seeds while water pipits hunt insects in the wet areas. High above, a golden eagle scans the basin again, circling slowly before following a ridge south to sight another likely slope in its 10,000-hectare territory. The moon shines through the tent top. The wind, blowing more violently now, shivers the nylon and interrupts the voice of the waterfall. I have followed the pasqueflower run from the April prairies here to its highest bloom near treeline. I think about the triangular seed pods of the glacier lilies, colonies of steep-throated blue gentians, and the season’s last glory of goldenrod. Indian paintbrush, from white to fire red, blazes the slopes that light the fringes of sleep. I awake to a determined rain, the moon gone and the tent shuddering with wind-blast. I try not to think of the steel-cold air, and slip into a fitful sleep that seems an endless treadmill of rocky trail. Stiff and unrefreshed, I look out into the dawnless morning. The tip of Thunderbird is detached from its base by grey clouds swirling at its throat. A wave of sleet slants down, dancing on the rocks, chanting triumph over the buried, bent, and broken flowers of yesterday. So I must make my escape, short of Boulder Pass. Unattainable now, invisible above the cirque, that high pass grows in my memory. This testament to what a glacier can do, to the struggle of trees and the life-pioneers that invade such harsh places, is at my feet but shrouded with snow. My hands grow stiff and numb in the blunt work of packing up.