A group of billy goats bounded across the scree field interspersed by patches of grass. My two friends and I watched them run as we walked towards the spot they had just occupied. My pack felt heavy on my shoulders and I readjusted it for the hundredth time today. We came across another patch of snow, at least a football field in length, and I glanced up at my friends. They both nodded and began to trek across the field of white. Nervously, I watched Chris walk out onto the snow first, his low-top waterproof shoes gripping the slippery surface well. Neal went next, his heavy hiking boots providing plenty of stability and traction in the snow. Finally, I stepped into Neal's bootprint in my tennis shoes. Normally, I much preferred hiking mountains in my tennis shoes; they were lighter, more agile, and never hurt my feet. Walking through snow and wet grass, however, made me rethink that strategy.
It took a few minutes but eventually we all safely made it across the icy snow patch. No one had fallen through into a deep crevasse and none of us had slid down the icy slope toward the cliff face. Casual conversation picked up again and my two friends and I laughed at some shared memory or joked about how dangerous it would be if we somehow got lost, a possibility we were all sure would never happen. After spending the last three nights in tents at 10,000 feet of elevation, we were excited for today's hike and our final destination, Sylvan Lake. There were six of us on the trip, and we had set out early that morning to traverse the ridge of Sylvan peak. The traverse followed a small mountain stream from the Snow Lakes up the Sylvan ridge to the peak, then back down into the bowl of Sylvan Lake itself.
Several hours ago I had convinced Neal and Chris to accompany me to the top of Elk Mountain, a peak I estimated was an hour or two to our right. Summiting Elk was not in our plans, but the mountain was right there, I couldn't resist at least trying. There were no trails here in Montana's Absaroka wilderness, only streams and a map, so the three of us had split off from the group and made our way to the top of Elk Mountain as fast as we could. Our other three friends shook their heads and called us crazy then continued the traverse of Sylvan peak toward our lake destination.
Now, after finally summiting both Elk Mountain and Sylvan peak, my two friends and I were hustling to make it down the mountain before nightfall. I still wanted to go fishing tonight, but that was looking less and less likely as the hours passed us by. As we approached the bowl in which our destination sat, we started to grow excited that the end of our trek was near. We stepped across boulders and picked our way through the marshy grasses soaked with water from the snow melt. We finally got to the edge of the bowl and I looked down in relief upon the deep blue water of Sylvan Lake. Across the lake I could see sprawling forests and mountains that went on for miles and miles. The bowl was nearly a complete ridge of mountain circling the lake, with only one break in the wall directly across from where we stood. The inside of the bowl was nothing but brown rocks and scree fields descending at a slope that seemed nearly vertical. The three of us discussed the best way down and finally settled on a descent about 50 yards to our right. If this descent didn't work, our only other option was a gradual decline on the other side of the bowl, a hike of at least another mile. I prayed that this descent would work.
Chris went first, making his way carefully down the mountain. There were stones jutting from the side of the slope to use as footholds, but the face was so steep we had to crab walk the entire time. The heavy packs made things significantly harder. It only took about five minutes of slow crawling for Chris to call up to us.
"Massive snow patch right below me," he said. I looked up at Neal and groaned, passing on the information. There was indeed a large snow patch, and this was not one you could walk across. It looked more like a ski slope sliding down to the rocks below. A painful way to go, I thought. The three of us made our way back to the top of the bowl. Standing at the top of a ridge we could not descend, looking down at a lake we couldn't reach, I grew both worried and frustrated. We searched in vain for another way down but found none. It was time to start the journey across the bowl. To the only other viable descent, miles away.
I was the first to notice the potential problem but didn't say anything. The problem was a thin line of cliffs between us and the gradual, sloping field we had seen from across the bowl. If we could not cross those cliffs, we would not make it to the field. If we could not make it to the field we might not get down the mountain. The sky was growing ominously dark.
"Rain clouds," Chris stated, lowering his head. Sure enough the grey clouds were rolling in. I threw on my rain jacket and put the waterproof covering over my pack. Chris and Neal followed suit and the three of us realized our situation was growing dire. I expressed my concern about the cliffs and then left them behind to check it out. I hiked quickly across the scree field, the boulders growing so large I was leaping instead of walking. About half an hour later I arrived at the pass I'd seen from a distance and, sure enough, it was virtually impassable. The ridge we were on narrowed into a steep set of unclimbable cliffs. With the right gear they could be traversed, but, of course, we had none. I put down my pack on a rock and began to search for another way down. Thankfully, the rain hadn't grown worse than a drizzle, but the temperature had dropped several degrees. I had three layers on and had only kept warm from the constant movement. Spending a night on the mountain would be miserably cold, perhaps dangerously so.
I found two potential routes for descent, neither of which I would consider safe. Even more unfortunate was that both routes went down the wrong side of the ridge, away from the bowl. As I waited for my friends to catch up, I looked to my right and saw Sylvan Lake taunting me. We were so close, maybe a mile or two as the crow flies, yet our trip was far from over. I looked to my left at the path we would have to take. At the bottom was nothing but dense forest. Time continued to march forward and night grew ever closer.
When Chris and Neal arrived I explained our options. The first path wasn't as steep, however it curled around a massive rock and stretched on for quite a ways. We couldn't tell if it even led to the mountain's base. It was clear that the second path made it all the way down the mountain, but it was steep; nearly vertical. Plus, there was a snow patch about ten feet long we would have to glacade down. I asked Chris if he knew how far Sylvan was from the bottom of the ridge. His answer twisted my stomach.
"I gave the map to the other guys, remember?"
"Oh. Right."
We finally settled on the second path and began the treacherous descent. I went first, crawling down the first section until I reached the snow bank. Holding on to a boulder on my right, I positioned myself so that I would slide down the snow on my butt and, at the end of the snow bank, catch myself on a large rock with my feet. If I missed that rock, however, I might tumble hundreds of feet down the mountain. Taking a deep breath, I let go of the rock and began to slide. I tried to slow myself with my hands but control quickly slipped away from me. Just as I thought I was picking up too much speed, my feet slammed into the rock and I stopped. My heart tried to leap out of my chest. I tried to calm myself, but adrenaline was already pumping through my veins. Eyes wide, I leaned back against the snow, footing secure on the rock. I'd been cold a few minutes ago, but I was sweating now. Carefully, I stood on the rock and stepped off onto the side of the mountain. Then I heard someone else sliding through the snow.
Chris took a different route down the bank and stumbled onto loose rocks at the end of his glacade. For a moment I watched in terror as he nearly stumbled too far. Thankfully, he caught himself and maintained his balance. I couldn't help but laugh nervously. Neal successfully slid down the snow and soon the three of us were all cautiously, carefully ambling down the mountain. We spread ourselves about fifty feet apart to keep from kicking loose rocks onto each other by mistake. The descent was agonizingly slow and steeper than anything I'd hiked. At one point, the rock I was standing on slid out from under me and bounced down the mountain. I caught myself on the rock beside me and held on tight until I finally got my feet under me. I realized then how close I'd been to tumbling down the mountain after the rock. I took a few minutes to myself after that, trying to catch my breath and steel my nerves.
As I finally neared the bottom of the shaft, I saw a lush field of grass with a loud mountain stream beside it and a dense pine forest beyond. I locked on to that field and urged my legs to keep moving. I glanced behind me and saw Chris making his way down maybe 200 yards behind me. Beyond him, Neal sat on a rock catching his breath, a small figure far away. From down here, the gully we had climbed down seemed far steeper than it had from the top, and I couldn't believe we'd even attempted such a descent. I turned back to my task. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, I made it safely to the grass at the bottom of the mountain. I flopped down on the soft turf and closed my eyes. I laughed for a moment at the absurdity of the situation and then stood to see how far behind my friends were. The sun was approaching the horizon quickly, but by this point I was determined to reach the lake before the day expired. I rested for another twenty minutes until Chris reached the field and collapsed into the grass, exhausted. Neal wasn't far behind him.
"I don't know if we'll make it to Sylvan tonight," Chris said. To me, that wasn't really a viable outcome. Chris had said there was a trail to the lake somewhere in the pine forest, near a stream he thought, but without the map we didn't know where it was or how to find it.
"I'm going to go scout ahead," I replied. I left my pack and ventured into the pine trees. I kept the ridge of rocks to my right and picked out landmarks in the forest so I could find my way back. I walked for nearly ten minutes until I found an opening in the trees. I walked towards it and it led me to another ridge, twenty feet high and built of loose gravel and dirt. Pulling energy from reserves I was certain were empty, I scrambled up the steep incline on all fours, ignoring the rocks and dirt sliding down behind me. When I reached the top I saw a forested valley below me, and a long hill ahead of me. Just over that crest I pictured Sylvan Lake glittering in the waning sunlight and imagined fishing it. Unfortunately, I knew this daydream would not come to pass. There was one potential route through the valley and up the ridge, but it was to be another tough climb, one I did not expect any of us to accomplish in our present state. Dejectedly, I climbed back down and returned the way I came, annoyed that I had found no useful information.
When I returned, Chris was sitting up eating cold mashed potatoes while Neal filtered water into our empty bottles. After food, (and some mild convincing on my part) we all felt much better and decided to give it a go through the woods. Each of us silently prayed we would find the trail quickly. The fear that the trail wasn't there was not a thought that was spoken aloud. With our packs weighing us down and fatigue an ever present companion, we finally plunged into the pine forest as the sky slowly darkened above us. We hiked for only ten minutes until we came across another steep field of rocks. Groaning, we made our way down. My legs shook with the effort and I knew my friends were experiencing the same thing. Making it to the bottom was a temporary relief. We still had no clue where the trail was. We stumbled across game fields aplenty, which might sound encouraging but was really not. In the frightened and tired state I was in I only thought about bears and moose walking these trails. Beasts of the Montana mountains capable of killing three humans if they wished. I pushed the thought aside.
I honestly don't know how long we walked through that forest, only that my mood was beginning to grow irritable, and my demeanor grim. I was no longer certain we could make it to Sylvan Lake before nightfall, and I began to second guess my advocating for searching for the trail. Perhaps it would have been better to set up camp in that field and begin the search in the morning. Our other friends would certainly have been anxious for us, but that would be preferable to getting lost. Just as I was starting to think about these things I heard rushing water. Was that the infamous stream that crossed the trail we were looking for?
A minute later I heard a shout from Chris in front of me.
"There it is, baby!" he yelled. A surge of excitement rushed through me and my head snapped up. There in front of us was a dirt path about a yard wide that extended as far as we could see in either direction. All three of us whooped and sprinted toward the trail, huge smiles lighting up our faces. We had found the trail.
Some time later, I don't recall how long, we made it to the lake and found our friends with camp set up and food cooking. They were pumped to see us, as were we, and we swapped stories about the day. Turns out they'd also had a terrible time descending to the lake and had been wondering how we'd fare. But the what-ifs and possible tragedies never came to pass and the thoughts of what could have happened fluttered away on the wind and were replaced by laughter and joy at making it to the Lake in one piece.
