27px, we want 27. Please register or login . The skies grant no mercy the next day, as we ford the numbing North Fork of Crystal River and make another long, hurtful ascent to a meadow at nearly 12,000 feet, where we pitch our soggy tents. From a cliff half a mile away comes the cracking rumble of a rockslide, the sound carrying for a full minute.
Raindrops perform a drumroll on our nylon roofs all night long.
Come morning, I awaken groggily from a vague dream involving sunshine, a tropical beach, and a mixed drink with a piece of fruit the size of my head in a shallow, wide glass. The image smears and runs like a doused watercolor painting as I realize that once again, it's raining. I can smell the dampness, and its cold envelops me even inside my sleeping bag. A steady mist sprays our gear as we eat and pack up. It matures to a deliberate shower as we pant up into the clouds at Trail Rider Pass.