First snow

Thank you for the kind words and thoughts about my grandfather. As I reflect on his life and what he meant to me, the more peace I feel about his passing. He went gracefully, in his own home, with his wife and three daughters at his side. It was the way he would have wanted to go, in peace and on his own terms - not imprisoned in a hopeless battle with his pain. And next weekend, I will have an opportunity to attend his funeral and share memories with the scores of people who loved him.

As for me, I am in the midst of a fantastic Labor Day weekend in northern Montana. I drove up with my friend Dave from Missoula and we met up with Danni and Brad from Kalispell, then the four of us headed to the east side of Glacier National Park. We spent an incredible 10 hours traversing a high ridge, walking the tundra, scrambling up and down cliff bands and sliding through scree as we were blasted by 60 mph wind gusts. Sometimes cold, sometimes fending off dizzying bouts of vertigo, often giddy, and always in awe of the big world surrounding us. We ended up clocking 11,800 feet of vertical gain over 23 to 25 miles. I have a slew of pictures I'll have to sort through in time.

Today we decided to take it "easy" with an eight to nine-mile lollipop loop in the Swan Mountains, in Jewel Basin. I think the spirit of my grandfather was smiling down on me because we were met with what is one of my favorite events of the year - the first time I get caught outside in the snow.

Can you find the mountain goat in this photo?

Snow made our mellow hike giddily dramatic, one the fog moved through and the snow-dusted cliffs of the Bob Marshall wilderness rose into view.

Climbing high above the Flathead Valley.

Descending toward "The Bob."

First snows are most special when they happen in the summertime, in a world still alive with bright colors and brilliant greens. An early-season powder-coat paints it all with a kind of frosty softness, whitewashed edges and splashes of silver.

And you know these first snows won't last, which makes them that much more unique ... and palatable. After all, we want to relish these last days of summer. It won't be long now 'til it's fall.

For my grandpa

Today was spent tracing the contour of a ridge high above Glacier National Park, where wind howled and clouds swirled and we clung to cliff bands, perched on the edge of infinity.

It was the day my grandfather died.

I will think of him when I visit these high places.

Alden

This is Alden. He's 68 years old. He's a recently retired professor of computer science at the University of Montana. And he's just about the toughest mountain biker you'd ever have the pleasure of riding with. He's mountain biked in Missoula for a couple of decades and ridden every single span of dirt in a 20-mile radius, every single one ... or at least he has the reputation for it. He raced the Butte 50 and then attended his 50-year high school reunion on the exact same day. How many people can write that in their yearbook? His trail knowledge is as deep as Hellgate Canyon, his calves are as rippled as an Olympic sprinter's, and he won't tolerate sandbagging from anyone. Don't ever step off your bike if Alden can see you. Even a near-vertical, loose-gravel-strewn uphill headwall is no excuse. You could be on your knees and Alden will spin past you, grinding his meticulously slow rotations, admonishing in his gruff and friendly way, "If I can ride it, you can ride it." And, really, who are you to argue?

And what Alden dishes out, Alden can take. He even has his own trail, "Alden's Bear Right," which is really just the rugged profile of a long-ago logging road cut with the faintest hint of singletrack. He'll tear through the weeds and alders and it's downright terrifying to even try to keep up with him - so much so that only a few in the Thursday Night Ride group were close enough to witness Alden smack a well-hidden, cantaloupe-sized rock and cartwheel several yards, breaking the high-speed fall with his face. Blood gushed from the bridge of his nose and upper lip and he stood up and calmly announced that one of the lenses in his glasses popped out. A half dozen people scattered to search, but he ended up finding it on his own, pulled his toppled bike out of the embankment, accepted the application of a band-aid, provided satisfying answers to every head-injury question, and walked down the rest of the trail with a big smile on his face.

Oh, he's going to be in trouble tonight," Julie whispered, referring not to Alden's rather painful-looking injuries, but to his wife.

Alden's my hero.