What was I thinking? If I stayed huddled here any longer, I would surely freeze to death, which would be a completely unoriginal thing to do on a mountain named such as this. The stunted pine tree branch wasn’t providing any shelter at all in the sideways wind, and the rainstorm showed no signs of stopping anytime soon. I was crouched on a decayed log, trying to conserve body heat as water continued to trickle off my rainjacket and saturate my shorts. Leaving my rainpants behind was, on hindsight, a ridiculously ill-conceived decision, but I was already halfway up the side of Froze-To-Death Mountain and I wasn’t ready to back down, even if hypothermia had already begun nibbling at the edges of my health and spirit.

I’d had every reason to hope that this second storm would pass through quickly, for the first thunderstorm of the afternoon had blown through in less than half an hour. I had taken shelter from the initial downpour at the edge of Mystic Lake, beneath a rock outcropping large and cozy enough for a tea party. The sunshine that followed renewed my faith in the success of this expedition into Montana’s Beartooth Mountains.

Now in the midst of the second storm, my success had become dependent upon my ability to keep moving. Gritting my teeth against the uncooperative weather, I hoisted my heavy backpack, cinched my hood tighter, and forced my constricted muscles to carry my chilled body up the switchbacks towards treeline. I was almost embarrassed that I had stayed put for so long.

The trail was steep enough, and my pack was heavy enough that I figured the exertion would warm my blood in due course. It didn’t happen. I added fleece layers to my chest, but the hands that gripped my hiking poles remained white and numb, no matter how much I tried to build up a sweat. The wind sapped away any external heat I was able to generate by way of friction and movement.

Gradually, I was able to raise my core temperature a few degrees as I climbed 1,500 feet to reach the alpine plateau. A broad, treeless expanse of grass and exposed rock stretched for two miles to the summit outcropping of Froze-To-Death Mountain, and the storm howled undeterred across the flat country. I faced the wind and began trudging up the plateau, feeling the sting of cold rain against my cheeks and the discomfort of sodden socks, which were channeling rainwater into the toes of my boots.

Somewhere I needed to find or create a campsite for myself so I could crawl into my sleeping bag and get dry and warm. Yet I dreaded stopping, because movement was keeping me alive, and it was at least partially distracting me from the folly of my current circumstances. At 5:00, I came across a pool of clean water and set down my pack. This site was the best I would probably find on this side of the summit, though I loathed the thought of having to pitch my tent in the rain. My equipment would be exposed to the elements, and I knew I’d end up with a very damp tent interior.