Now afternoon, we slog up to Frigid Air Pass, overlooking the Maroon Bells and Fravert Basin, an otherworldly valley of green grass dappled with wildflowers. We're feeling the physical toll of two passes long before we find a campsite. Come evening, the rain returns like an unwanted houseguest. 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.