We don’t see a soul all day. If there is a way to move with grace and ease over the snow, we haven’t found it. In the morning we stumble over sun cups, in the afternoon we posthole up a slushy Pinchot Pass. My grace continues to diminish on the way down. At one point I find myself suddenly upside-down, hanging by my leg over a steep slide into an icy lake. I wonder, how long would I have stayed like that if Pete wasn’t there to pull me out? We sleep in earshot of the roar of the King’s River, dreading the morning ford.